John Roberts - An Academic Question

The walk to the studio was a short one. It was just a simple shed with two open sides, only enough to keep out rain and let in as much light as possible. In its centre stood a magnificent sculpture and we all admired it for a while. The youths were portrayed in incredibly lifelike fashion, symmetrically but naturally posed, each with an arm around the other's shoulder. Each had a hand extended to one side. Clearly, when it was finished, the extended hands would rest upon the rims of their shields. The tops and backs of their heads were unfinished.

'Isn't it conventional,' I said, 'to portray Achilles as somewhat larger than any of the other heroes except for Ajax?'

'I have departed from convention here,' Agesander said. 'My models are utter perfection, and taking liberties with such perfection could anger the Muses. I have depicted them as the same size, exactly as in life.'

'Why are the heads not finished?' asked Rhoecus.

'When complete, they will be wearing helmets. These are of the Corinthian design, pushed up to display their faces – in fact, here come those helmets now.'

A crew of workmen arrived at the studio, carrying wooden stretchers which bore weighty objects covered with protective cloths. Agesander drew back the cloths to inspect the work, revealing a pair of imposing helmets and two broad, circular shields. The shield of Patroclus bore a Gorgon mask on its face. That of Achilles, slightly larger, was covered with the incredible design of concentric circles of cities, battles and so forth as described in the Iliad .

'Melanippus has done an excellent job, as usual,' Agesander proclaimed. 'When finished, the details will be highlighted in silver and gold. This group was commissioned by the citizens of Miletus, and they have paid for the very best treatment.'

'Such a sculpture,' said Neacles, the lyre teacher, 'would assure the reputation of any city.'

'The Milesians are singularly fortunate,' Rhoecus agreed.

For once, I had no argument with the fulsomeness of the praise. As far as I was concerned, this work was beyond praise.

The house of Rhoecus was a short walk from the studio. His table was as austere as I had feared but the conversation, which in this company was mostly devoted to art, was agreeable enough. I did not understand Neacles' more technical comments concerning the lyre, especially when he dragged in the theories of Pythagoras, but overall it wasn't nearly as boring as I had expected.

It was interesting to study the interplay among the younger men. They were something new in my experience, whereas I had seen numerous specimens of the other types. Isaeus and Melanthus displayed a clear affection, together with that distance which always characterises rivals. Amyntas, on the other hand, showed an almost embarrassing infatuation with Isaeus, constantly fawning over him, serving his plate like a servant and so forth. Oddly, the others did not seem to regard this as improper behaviour. Greeks, you know.

'And now,' said Rhoecus as the plates were cleared away, the drinking bowl was brought in and the wreaths were passed around, 'we must excuse the young men. All three are in training for the next Isthmian Games and have taken a sacred vow not to touch wine and to be abed within an hour of sunset.'

Isaeus, Melanthus and Amyntas took their leave respectfully. The elder two had spoken scarcely a dozen words between them since being introduced to me. Although grown epheboi , they were still of an age to keep silence before their elders.

Rhoecus was elected master of ceremonies. He decreed the wine should be mixed with no more than one-third part water and that each of us should regale the party with a story or song, beginning with me.

So I gave them the rousing story of Mucius Scaevola, who, when captured by Tarquin the Proud, thrust his own hand into the brazier of coals and did not flinch while it burned to a stump, to show the Etruscans how contemptuous the Romans were of death and torture. I received polite applause. It is often better to make a point with foreigners than to please them.

'A very – ah, how shall I say – Roman story,' commended Rhoecus. 'And now, Neacles?'

The old man made a production of tuning his lyre and graced us with a wonderful song in praise of Apollo. This, someone whispered to me, was the song with which Neacles had taken the Olympic prize twenty years before.

The applause was just dying down when a slave rushed in, breathless and bug-eyed.

'Murder!' he cried. 'Murder at the studio of Agesander!'

'Who is this?' I asked.

'Why,' Agesander said, 'this is one of my slaves. What are you babbling about, you fool? Are you drunk? If so, I'll have the hide off your back!'

'No! It is murder! Come look!' The man appeared to be some sort of Asiatic, and in his agitation he forgot his Greek and lapsed into his native gibberish.

'We had better go look,' Rhoecus said. Everyone rose, doffing their wreaths and looking about for their sandals. I was last out the door, first dipping another cup of wine and draining it. I winced at the taste of the resin Greeks use so excessively in their wine. It never kept me from drinking it though.

Back at the studio, our torches illuminated a dismal scene. At the base of the wonderful sculpture a corpse lay, facedown, its dark hair bloodied. At the order of Agesander, slaves turned him over, revealing the handsome features of Melanthus. It looked as if the evening would be livelier than I had anticipated.

'My friends,' Rhoecus said sadly, 'I fear that we must summon the city Archon and the leading men. Somebody fetch Isaeus and my son as well.'

'Don't forget the Roman governor,' I said, reminding them of who had the real power here.

While various slaves and flunkies scurried to carry out these orders, I examined the studio. All was much as we had left it, save that the shield of Achilles now lay face-down on the floor and one of the helmets lay near it. I squatted by the helmet and looked it over. The bronze crest was clotted with blood and hair. It had been the murder weapon.

Grasping an edge of the shield, I rocked it. It moved ponderously. It was not a battle shield, made of wood and faced with thin bronze. It was a piece of sculpture, made of solid bronze and as thick as a man's palm. Crossing to the statue, I examined the position of the hands. Below each was a slot cut into the pedestal and artfully disguised by carved grass. The lower rims of the shields would rest in these slots. By the time I finished my examination quite a throng had gathered, many of the men still wearing wreaths from interrupted drinking bouts. As word of the victim's identity spread their mood turned ugly. One of the city's most promising youths had been murdered.

In short order the city's Archon arrived, along with his board of counsellors, all distinguished men. Serrius arrived, and I was happy to see that he had foresightedly brought a strong guard of auxiliaries from the Greek levies. The Archon called for silence.

'We must have an orderly presentation of the evidence,' said the white-bearded elder. 'I call upon all to remain calm. Who last saw this man alive?'

Rhoecus came forward and gave an account of our dinner party and how the young men had withdrawn before the symposium. He spoke with a philosopher's impassivity but I could see the worry on his face. I didn't blame him.

'Isaeus son of Diocles and Amyntas son of Rhoecus,' the Archon said, 'come forward.' I had to hand it to them, these Athenians knew how to conduct a proper inquest. The two young men came forward. Both produced very convincing cries and tears upon seeing the bloody corpse of their late friend.

'Amyntas,' said the Archon, 'tell us how you last saw Melanthus.'

'It was at my father's house!' the boy said through his tears. 'I bid Isaeus and Melanthus goodnight at the door and went to my room to sleep, I swear it!'