The Marathon Conspiracy (15 page)

“None that we know of,” I agreed. “The lovelorn Melo might be perfect for the abduction of Ophelia, but he had no reason to harm Allike.”

“What about this story of a wild bear?”

“Maybe a bear did kill Allike. But Melo says Ophelia told him she was certain it was a human murderer.”

That was second-hand hearsay. Even to my ears, it sounded weak.

“There hasn’t been a bear in Attica for generations,” Pericles said. “Men used to hunt them, but they’re gone now.”

“I know.”

“What else?” Pericles asked.

“The fifth scroll. It has to be important. Where is it?”

“Brauron or Athens. Obviously.”

“Everyone in Athens denies having seen it,” I said. “Everyone in Brauron says they saw it. Maybe Ophelia could tell us the real truth. Pericles, what do you think of this Melo?”

“Highly untrustworthy,” Pericles said at once. “I don’t know his father.”

“We have to find Ophelia, and we have to discover what became of the missing scroll, and we have to check the histories of
everyone
involved in this case who might have been around thirty years ago.”

“Why?”

“Because whatever caused this began thirty years ago. I must warn you, Pericles, this might take longer than we originally thought.”

Pericles thought about that before he nodded. “I see your reasoning,” he said. “Yes, your approach seems satisfactory.”

I stood in the dusty agora, open-mouthed, astonished that Pericles was being reasonable. It was so unlike him.

Pericles continued, “Nicolaos, I’ve looked into the issue of your payment for the first commission you carried out for me. I was astonished when I looked it up to see that sorry affair happened a full year ago. How time flies. You’re correct that I never did settle my account. Clearly I owe you, and the agreed sum is
sufficient to provide a small, steady income
.”

“That’s right.”

“I’ve given this some thought, and I think the best way to acquit the debt is to give you a farm.”

“
What!
”

“Only a small one,” said Pericles, almost apologetically. “But a farm’s good for a small, steady income.”

“I thought you’d give me money,” I said.

“So did I at first, but consider, Nicolaos, if I were to give you coins, how could you make a steady income from that? You’d have to invest it, wouldn’t you? To take shares in a trading boat, or perhaps lend it to someone at a rate of interest. These are all risky ventures, and you specifically said a
steady
income. There’s nothing steady about trade. But land, Nicolaos, land is always a solid investment.”

I thought back to the words of Polonikos, who had advised me to avoid borrowing and lending and to stick with the one true source of wealth, stretching back to King Theseus: ownership of the land.

Me, a land owner. What would my father say when he learned that I’d brought a farm into the family? He thought I was doomed to poverty because no one could make investigation pay! I smiled to myself.

“Does this suit you?” Pericles asked, interrupting my thoughts.

“What? Oh, yes Pericles. It suits very well indeed. I agree.” I couldn’t wait to tell Diotima. She’d be proud when she heard how her husband was going up in the world.

“Good. I know you need to see the Basileus in the morning. Meet me tomorrow afternoon at my family estate. I’ll take you to your new property.”

T
HE
B
ASILEUS HAS
his being in the Stoa Basileus—the Royal Stoa, for Basileus means “king” in our language—in the top northwest corner of the agora, on the busiest intersection in Athens, where the Panathenaic Way meets the road to Piraeus. Displayed before the Stoa Basileus are the laws of Athens, chiseled into stone, that any man might see them. The Royal Stoa lies directly opposite the Crossroads Shrine, where dotted all around are busts of the god Hermes to bring good luck to travelers.

Clutched in my hand was the letter I’d begged from Pericles, which got me past the long, long queue of men who waited to do business with one of the busiest administrators in Athens. I ignored the dirty looks of those waiting and breezed right through the door to the outer office.

In the outer office, standing right in front of me, was Glaucon, who had been first to confess to killing Hippias.

“What are you doing here?” I blurted, before my thoughts could catch up with my mouth.

Glaucon looked sheepish. “I’m assistant to the Basileus,” he said.

So that was how he’d known to come see me so quickly. When I’d asked him, Glaucon had said that assistants talk. What he hadn’t said was that he was the assistant doing the talking. He probably knew I was to be given the assignment even before Pericles had spoken to me. In the race to be declared the killer of the tyrant, Glaucon had cheated. No wonder he’d cringed when I walked in.

“I’ve business with the Basileus,” I told him, and handed over the letter from Pericles. Glaucon barely glanced at it—he probably knew my business better than I did. He set aside the parchment and said, “The Basileus has someone with him now.” He made a mark on a wax tablet. “I’ll squeeze you in.”

“Thanks.”

While we waited, I said, “Glaucon, when the skull and the case arrived from Brauron, did you open the case?”

He blinked. “Of course. I always check anything sent to the Basileus. Otherwise, how would I know to prioritize his business?”

“How many scrolls were in the case when you opened it?”

“Four.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m fairly sure I can count to four.”

“Did you read them?”

“Only the first. When I saw who’d written it … well, you know.”

He’d had the same reaction as me.

“I took it in to the Basileus at once,” Glaucon continued. “I even interrupted a meeting to do it.”

“Oh? Who else was at the meeting?”

“Is this important?”

“It might be.” Whoever had been there would also know about the scrolls and the skeleton.

“I’ll have to check. If you’re lucky I’ll still have the appointments tablet for that day. Wait a moment.”

Glaucon opened a cupboard, in which were stacked piles and piles of wax tablets.

“We keep appointment tablets going back two months, then reuse them,” he explained. “You’re lucky this happened recently.” He mumbled to himself as he ran his finger down the stack, calling off the days of the month. “Noumenia, Second Waxing, Third Waxing … no, no, no, it was later than that … Tenth Waxing, Eleventh, Twelfth, Thirteenth … Ninth Waning, Eighth Waning, Seventh Waning. Here it is!” He pulled a tablet from close to the bottom. The whole stack fell out and smashed on the floor.

“Curse it!”

“Sorry about that,” I said.

“Not your fault,” he said absently. “That always happens when I try to pull one from the bottom. I’ll get the slaves to clean it up.”

He opened the front door and yelled for a slave. One came running. Glaucon gestured at the tumbled pile without a word, and the slave knelt and got to work, shouting as he did for another slave to bring a basket.

I asked Glaucon, “Can the broken tablets be repaired?”

“Not a chance. We’ll have to buy new ones. It hardly matters.” Glaucon shrugged. “They’re paid for out of public money. There’s plenty more where that comes from.”

“What job did you say you were running for?”

“State treasurer.”

“Terrific.”

Glaucon ran his finger down the list in his hand. “Ah, here’s the answer to your question. The meeting when I walked in with the skull and case was to do with the next big public festival—that’s the Great Dionysia, where they put on all the plays. There was only one other man in the room. One of those writer types, a fellow named Aeschylus.”

At that moment the door to the inner office opened. A busy-looking man marched out. He passed right between Glaucon and me without acknowledging either of us, opened the outer door, and slammed it behind him.

Glaucon and I looked at each other. “The Basileus will see you now,” he said.

The Basileus is one of the three senior government officials whose job it is to run Athens day to day, the other two being the Eponymous Archon, who sees to citizen matters, and the Polemarch, who manages matters involving resident aliens in Athens. The Basileus sees to religious matters and public festivals. Basileus means king, but the man who holds the post is no royal. Like any other archon, he serves his year and then is done.

This year’s Basileus was a stern man who, like most archons,
had rapidly thinning hair. Hair loss seemed to go with the job description.

He didn’t stand as I walked in. He remained seated on a wooden stool behind a small desk, his back ramrod straight. He frowned at the sight of me.

“Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus, of the deme Alopece, sir,” I said by way of introduction.

“I recognize you,” he said. “You’re Pericles’s little attack dog, aren’t you? The one he hired over the arrival of that bizarre skull.”

The Basileus gestured to one of the three camp stools on my side of the room. The legs of all three stools had been carved identically to resemble the legs of horses, and all ended in horses’ hooves. It was basic stuff, and it looked as if the Basileus had picked them up at an army-disposal sale.

I eased myself into the one he indicated, by no means certain it wouldn’t collapse under me, and realized at once why one of the most important administrators in Athens used such furniture. It was excruciatingly uncomfortable. The Basileus was a man who encouraged short interviews.

“I have a few questions,” I said, wriggling my bottom in search of comfort.

“Be quick.”

“There was a scroll case that came with the skull, sir.”

“Yes.”

“When you opened the case, how many scrolls were within?”

“Four. I recall thinking it was odd; that there seemed to be one missing. But then I thought perhaps Hippias never wrote a fifth scroll.”

“The space for the fifth scroll is marked like the others.”

“I can’t help you there.” The Basileus leaned forward and pointedly looked to the door. I pointedly ignored the hint. It occurred to me the Basileus could give me some background about what had happened to Hippias.

I settled back into the camp stool and asked, “What was your
reaction, sir, when you saw the notes had been written by the old tyrant?”

“Indifference. That was all in the past. My job’s to deal with the present.”

“So you’re not concerned about tyrannies, sir? I would have thought anyone your age would be overwhelmingly concerned—”

The Basileus suddenly stood up, and though he wasn’t a tall man, he seemed to tower over me. “I’m old enough to remember those days, young man,” he said. “I was there. I may have been only a small child, but even I knew enough to be afraid. Do you know what it means to go to bed not knowing whether you’ll wake to find your father has been taken away by soldiers in the night?”

“Er … no,” I said.

“I knew if it happened, I’d never see my sire again. My father’s fear was palpable, even when he sat in his own courtyard.”

“I wonder that anyone supported the tyrant.”

The Basileus snorted. “It’s very simple. In that situation, if you want to survive, then you do what you’re told. Especially if you’re not overwhelmingly interested in concepts such as freedom. Enough men acted to save themselves, and it swept along the rest, until only those bent on suicide dared resist.”

“Did your father resist, sir?”

“My father was one of those who valued his life. He saved himself by giving the tyrant mild support. Father held a few minor administrative posts under Hippias, and that’s one of the reasons I’m here today. I’m not proud of it, but it’s what happened. He was never actively involved in the killings, mind you! I want to emphasize that.”

The Basileus stood there and waited for me to comment. I considered my words.

“I see,” I said, slowly. “I suppose you might argue that the city has to be administered, even when the government’s bad.”

“Precisely. If you want the ones who freed us, then you need to speak to the Alcmaeonid clan.”

“The Alcmaeonids?”

“You know them well. They’re the family of Pericles on his mother’s side. It was they who fomented the second plot against Hippias, the one that finally succeeded. You young men admire Pericles for his voice, but we older men tolerate him because he has the finest pedigree of any man alive.”

I said, “Pericles’s parents and grandparents are all dead.”

“So they are. If you want to know about those times, the only man alive that you could ask is Callias.”

“Callias!” I repeated, shocked. I knew him.

“Yes. The family of Pericles instigated the rebellion, but it was Callias who funded it. He was in thick with the whole plot.”

T
HAT AFTERNOON
, I took the road out of the Dipylon Gates, turned right, and walked to the family estate of Pericles. It was only a short distance, because the property had been there since time immemorial; the oldest families had the estates closest to Athens, and the family of Pericles was of the oldest, stretching back to the time of King Theseus and beyond.