Gary Corby: The Pericles Commission

“Humph. The confidence of youth. I can see, son, that you are bent on this course. I could order you to give up this commission and return to your proper work but…you wouldn’t be happy, would you?”

“No, Father.”

“I still believe your thought of a political trade is fantasy, but I will allow it to this extent. Go and do your political work, son-” My face broke into a huge smile. “But! Mark my words. If this commission of yours fails, if you do not win this supposed reward, if you do complete it and Pericles refuses to pay you, if at the end of this bizarre exercise you have not earned a drachma, then you will return and we will continue your training in sculpture as before, and there will be no more words about it.”

“You are very fair, Father.”

“Stupid is more like it, but I see I must indulge you in this to get it out of your system. Furthermore, young man, even supposing you do earn your first commission, I wonder where the next will come from. I am giving you two years to prove you can make a life of this. If you fail, back you come. I hope there will still be time to teach you a proper trade before you’re too old.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“Now the only problem is, who am I going to find to help an old man in his work. I doubt I can cope on my own anymore,” Sophroniscus said mildly. He wasn’t really particularly aged, but he liked to pretend that he was in his declining years and sometimes referred to himself as an old man. “There will be times I need you to assist me, son. The heavy work is more than one man can manage.”

“Of course, Father! I don’t mean that I don’t want to help my father, I mean that I…er…”

“Don’t want to do it a lot?” Sophroniscus offered with a smile.

“I’ll help!” a boy’s voice called from above. Sophroniscus and I both looked up in surprise to see Socrates kneeling on the top of the latest marble block. The little rat must have heard every word of our conversation.

“You, Socrates? I never thought you would be the one to take up sculpting.”

“I would like to try, Father. Please may I?”

Sophroniscus made a show of thinking about it. “You are young to start, but if it is your wish you can begin with the simpler pieces.” A blind man could see he was jumping with joy at the thought of having a son to pass on his trade. I had hurt the poor man deeply. Socrates had offered a perfect solution. Now I suppressed a smile.

Later I asked Socrates, “Did you truly mean what you said in there? If you didn’t, Father is going to be even more hurt later.”

“It’s okay, Nico. I think I’d like to be a sculptor.”

“Very well then, as long as you mean it.” I shared Sophroniscus’ surprise. Socrates didn’t seem the sculpting sort, or any other type of artist for that matter. You never can tell about people.

It seemed to me the next thing to do was talk to Archestratus and find out where he’d been at the time of the murder. To my surprise I found him at home. As soon as I said I came from Pericles, I was admitted into the andron, the public room at the front of the house reserved for men. Archestratus was a well-fed man with squinting eyes. He sat in an upright chair, in which he barely fit, surrounded by men, sitting upon couches set along the walls or standing. There were perhaps twenty or more of them, half with the worn faces and skin of middle age, and half younger men. A couple of those standing were jittering up and down on the spot, like runners about to start a race, but most of the men sitting had a slight slump to their shoulders. The air in the room felt hot, despite the open windows looking out onto the courtyard. Bowls of half-eaten food and cups of wine sat on low tables. A few scraps and overturned empty cups lay scattered about the floor.

The men were certainly citizens, or they would not have been present. Most wore the exomis, a knee-length garment that wraps around the body from the right side, belted about the waist, and tied over the left shoulder, leaving the right shoulder and arm bare. The exomis was the favored clothing for artisans and craftsmen. My father and I wore the same thing when we worked. Only a few men with gray hair had both shoulders and chest covered by the full-length chiton tunic of a genteel citizen, and two men my age wore the thigh-length chitoniskos of an active man. Excepting Archestratus, I doubted there was a landholder among them. Typical, in fact, of the very men the Areopagus wanted to keep from power. They had been talking loudly, but fell silent as I entered and was introduced. Every eye was upon me.

“So Pericles wants to deal, does he?” Archestratus said with satisfaction.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“A power-sharing accommodation is possible, but tell Pericles I won’t have any of that ‘you lead every alternate day’ nonsense. We split our interests down the middle. He can have foreign policy and I’ll take domestic.”

“That’s not why I’m here, sir. I’m investigating the murder of Ephialtes.”

Archestratus goggled. “You’re from his deme?”

“It’s a private commission.”

“The man’s dead. Obviously the old men of the Areopagus killed him, and there’s nothing we can do about it. We could hardly arrest the entire Council, and even if we did there’s no mechanism for taking them to trial.”

The men on the couches sat up straighter. One of the other men said, “What do you mean, Archestratus? Of course there is. Anyone accused of murder can be forced to stand trial. Being a member of the Areopagus is no immunity.”

Archestratus smiled and said, “You’re quite right. So can anyone tell us, when a man stands trial for murder, in which court is it held?”

I knew the answer to that one. “You wrote the law yourself, Archestratus. They’re tried by the Council of the Areop-Oh.”

Archestratus smiled and said, “Correct. Our accused murderers are the city’s entire set of homicide judges. Imagine the scene at the end of the trial, the accused walk to the front of the court to lay judgment on themselves. What verdict would you expect?”

Archestratus let that sink in for a moment.

“Constitutional crisis, gentlemen,” Archestratus said with relish. “Constitutional crisis of the highest order. I think I can say with all due modesty I am one of the few men equipped to deal with it.”

He certainly had me impressed, and I could see the other men were admiring Archestratus.

I said, “But sir, what if the murderer wasn’t a member of the Council?”

Archestratus frowned and said, “Of course he was.”

“Not necessarily. For example, what if someone else wanted to lead the democratic movement?”

“Your implication is clear, but I cannot imagine Pericles resorting to murder.”

“Pericles!” I exclaimed.

“Of course. You’re not suggesting I am a murderer, are you, young man?”

“Er-”

The men growled.

“No, of course not, Archestratus.”

“Good. If it was not the Council that did the deed, then look to his personal affairs.” A few of the men sniggered.

“Oh? Can you tell me about that?”

“I don’t inquire into other men’s personal business. I merely make the suggestion as a man who has seen his fair share of trials. Did you know most murders are over family feuds? Take it from me, young man, if the motive isn’t politics, then it’s personal.”

“Sir, I’m sure you understand the law better than I ever will. Could you tell me what happens now to Ephialtes’ house and property?”

Archestratus harrumphed. “If he had sons, or even nephews or brothers, his possessions would pass to them. I happen to know he had no close male relatives still living. There was a brother, but I believe he died in battle against the Persians before he could sire children. The law requires property to stay within the family. So in this case Ephialtes’ widow will be required to marry the closest possible man within his greater family. I have no idea who that is.”