Gary Corby - The Pericles Commission

“Here, let me help you.”

“Oh no, sir, I couldn’t do that!”

“Whyever not?”

“What would the master say?”

“Very little. He’s dead.”

The slave was taken aback. “Why, so he is, sir. I keep forgetting, it doesn’t seem real.”

I took the amphora from his protesting hands and started to serve. As I walked among them, some of the visitors asked if I was Ephialtes’ son. I claimed to be the son of an old friend-explaining why I had not cut my hair in mourning-and moved on.

The cup into which I was pouring jerked, making the wine splash my feet. The fellow holding the cup said, “Now there’s a brave man.”

For a moment I thought he meant me before I realized he was looking over my shoulder. I turned to see an older man standing by the body, a new arrival since he had no ash on his shoulders. Many in the courtyard had stopped talking to watch him.

A voice called out, “What is it, Lysanias? Come to make sure he’s dead?”

Lysanias ignored the implicit challenge, but said in a tone that brooked no argument, “Paying my respects to a good man.” The expression on his face was grim, made grimmer by his hair being cut so close that it was barely gray fuzz above his skull.

“Who’s he?” I asked the man next to me.

“One of the Council of the Areopagus.”

Lysanias stood for a moment, looking down at the corpse, then made his respects, much as I had done, but with more style, lifting the ashes in two hands above his head and letting them fall upon him. His lamentation sounded like he might have meant it.

When he finished, he did not stay. Probably there was no one in the house who would have wanted to speak with him anyway, except for me. Lysanias strode to the front door and out.

It had been an impressive performance. I had to agree with the fellow who’d spilled his wine on me: there went a brave man.

Several more members of the Areopagus arrived late. They too had come to do what was right for the dead man’s shade, and they were left in peace. Time passed slowly, but the stream of visitors finally slowed to a trickle, and by dusk they were all gone. I sat down, exhausted. It had been a long day. The slave sat beside me, looking like he might faint. I poured a cup of wine and handed it to him, then one for myself.

“What’s your name?” I asked him.

“Achilles, sir.”

“Achilles?” I could not keep the surprise from my voice. Never has a name less matched the wearer.

“I believe it was in the nature of a jest, sir, on account of my heels.”

Looking down, I saw that both Achilles’ heels had been cut deeply. They had not healed clean. The scars ran to his ankles, the mutilated flesh was tight and folded, white and flaky. Walking must have been painful.

“Who did this?” I asked in horror.

“A distant cousin of the master, sir, when they were boys.”

“For goodness’ sake, why? Did you do something very bad?”

“I believe it was in the nature of a jest, sir.”

I sat there with Achilles, trying to ignore the wailing from the women’s quarters, which had not let up the whole afternoon, as was proper.

“They’re doing a good job up there, but they must be getting tired,” I said, as I refilled his cup. “Is that shrill one the wife? She must be upset, her screams almost sound genuine.”

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir,” Achilles said and, after a long pause, he added in a low voice, “There’s another house will be in mourning,”

“What’s that?” I asked, startled.

“Another house, only not so public. His mistress, a hetaera with a special place for the master.”

I had to think about that. “When you say this woman’s a hetaera, I suppose you mean that as a courtesy title. Surely she’s some young girl that Ephialtes took in and gave a home?”

“Oh no, sir! Euterpe of Mantinea was never one of those common pornoi one finds walking the streets. Ephialtes first met Euterpe at one of her soirees, when she was already well established, with her own salon and a respectable clientele.”

Euterpe would be her professional hetaera name, not the one she was born with. The name meant “Great Delight.” The idea of Ephialtes keeping a highly expensive hetaera didn’t fit my image of him as a noble leader of the common man. The hetaera is a courtesan. Unlike most respectable women, she can read and write, and is as versed in poetry, philosophy, and politics as any man. She is able to hold an enchanting soiree in her salon, and the best men of the city will clamor to be invited. Hetaerae are not considered respectable by the wives, but the men who can afford them aren’t too bothered by that. On rare occasions, such a lady will form a special relationship with one man. He is expected to keep her in the style to which she is accustomed. She will see no other man.

“How do you know this, Achilles?”

“It was no secret, sir. I went there myself with the master more than once.” He told me her address.

“Did they get on, Ephialtes and Euterpe?”

“As one usually gets on with one’s mistress, sir. They’ve been together for years, sir. I understand she sees no other customers. It was almost like a second home for the master.”

Well, this certainly cast a new light on the shrill wailing coming from the women’s quarters, which was making my ears ring! “And what did his wife think of this?”

Achilles shrugged. “She wasn’t best pleased, I should imagine, sir. But then, the mistress is rarely pleased, and we can all get used to anything, given enough time, can’t we, sir?” He looked down at his feet.

“Achilles, I am going into your old master’s private room to have a look around.”

Achilles looked at me with interest and some fear.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea, sir. This house belongs to the new master now.”

“And who is that?”

He shrugged. “Who’s going to tell a slave something like that?”

“I’m not going to take anything. But I need to see if there’s anything that could tell me who killed him. Come along and watch me if you don’t trust me.”

Achilles held up his hands in horror. “Oh no! Then I’d be beaten for sure. No sir, you claimed to be a distant relative, like you said to some of those visitors. You ordered me to the kitchen to clean the place from top to bottom. When I returned, you were gone.”

“Thank you, Achilles.” I refilled his cup, and he shuffled off into the house. “Good luck,” I said to his back.

All Athenian houses are built to a common plan, a fact that burglars must bless, and that I was beginning to appreciate myself. I knew which side of the house held the women’s quarters-that’s where the screeching was coming from-so Ephialtes’ private rooms would be on the other side. From the small entrance hall I climbed the stairs and found what I wanted.

Ephialtes’ private room contained a desk, a few chairs, a dining couch, and boxes and boxes of scrolls and papyrus. The room felt musty, and it was dim, dark even, because the two windows which both looked out over the courtyard were in the wrong direction for the sun. I could see the body of Ephialtes below, lying in his shift. Directly opposite across the courtyard space, at the same level as me, were the women’s quarters. I would have had to be careful not to be seen, except curtains were drawn and shutters pulled in. I wandered about, the floorboards squeaking with every tread, which made me wince. It was a good thing Achilles knew I was here, or the household would assume it was the restless psyche of their departed master. There was a wax note tablet on the desk with some scratchings. Wax tablets are very popular for making temporary notes; when you’re done, or the tablet is full, you need only warm the wax and smooth it over to start again. The writing was small and awkward as it usually is on such things to avoid having to clean too often. At first glance there was nothing of interest on it. I picked it up anyway to inspect later. Nobody was going to miss it. There was a small scroll rack built onto the wall. Almost every slot was full. I pulled out a few of these and saw they were all books or treatises, mostly on philosophy or politics. One row held nothing but plays, most of them by Aeschylus. Ephialtes must have paid the famous poet to write out extra copies. I opened one and ran my fingers across it. The papyrus was smooth to my touch and consistent in color: Egyptian, expensive stuff. The boxes of papyrus contained notes, drafts of laws, more notes, letters, all written on the cheaper, standard material. In short, I was looking at piles of useless rubbish. I could spend the next month reading through this and still not find anything that gave me a hint of why he was killed. And if there was a clue, I probably wouldn’t recognize it. I kicked the table in disgust and then limped down the stairs and out the door, pausing only to wash my hands and head at the urn set outside to purify myself after being in the presence of the dead.