The Marathon Conspiracy (22 page)

“You got away with it, Diotima. Gaïs might not be impressed, but do you really care?”

“I’m scared, Nico.”

“Scared of what?”

“That Gaïs is right. That Artemis is only waiting until I’m married before she wreaks revenge on me. I
did
cheat the Goddess, and at the very ceremony that made me a nymphe. What if our marriage is a disaster, Nico, and it’s all my fault?”

I put an arm around her and hugged her tight. “It won’t be a disaster.”

“But what if it is?”

I sighed. “It won’t be. You’re the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with, and nothing will ever change that. Besides, if there’s going to be a disaster, there’s nobody I’d rather have it with than you.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

I helped her up, and we walked back to the sanctuary to collect some dinner. We ignored Sabina’s ugly stare and carried two bowls of lentils and bread out to the lawn. The moon was new, and the Temple of Artemis was a black shape.

As we ate, I told Diotima everything that had happened to me
during the trip to Athens. Diotima, anxious to get her mind off her fears, listened closely.

“The man in the helmet said Hippias was wounded in the fighting?” she said.

“Yes,” I replied. “Of course, there’s no reason to believe him.”

“But if he’s telling the truth, then how did Hippias get from Marathon to Brauron?” Diotima asked. “Did he walk?”

I said, “Across what was effectively enemy territory? Surely someone would have spotted him.”

“Well, I don’t know then.”

“We need a map,” I said.

“We don’t have one.”

“We’ll draw our own.” I picked up a stick and began to scratch in the dirt at our feet. “Here’s the coastline.” I scratched in a rough outline of the coastline of Attica, the large area of southern Greece that was controlled by Athens.

“Here’s Marathon.” I marked the spot on the upper right of the map.

“The Persians landed their boats on the beach at Marathon, and that’s where the army of Athens marched to meet them.” I drew an oval to mark the beach, and a picture of a boat.

“The Athenians and the Persians fought.” I drew an X in the oval that represented the beach. “Everyone agrees Hippias was at Marathon.”

“All right,” Diotima agreed. She stared down at the map intently.

“After the battle, the Persians boarded their boats. They sailed to Phaleron.” I drew in another oval to denote Phaleron, a large expanse of beach to the south of Athens. I placed a pebble to show Athens on the left hand side of the map.

“Obviously the Persians hoped to unload at Phaleron and attack Athens before our army could return. But our men force-marched across all of Attica. When they got there, the Persians found lined up against them the same army that had
whipped their asses at Marathon. The Persians gave up and went home.”

“Hooray for our side,” Diotima said. “But you haven’t explained Hippias … oh, hold on … wait …” I could see Diotima’s brain working hard. “Nico, Hippias was seen at Marathon, but
no one saw Hippias at Phaleron
.”

“Right. To get from the beach at Marathon to the beach at Phaleron, the Persians had to take this route.” I swept the stick in a long arc, from the top right of the map to the bottom.

“Brauron is here. On the coast.” I placed an X a third of the way along the arc. Diotima said excitedly, “This is beginning to make sense. Hippias was dropped off at Brauron by the Persians on their way to Phaleron.”

“Yes!”

“No,” Diotima said, unhappily.

“No?”

“Wouldn’t the people at Brauron have noticed a Persian warship pulling up at their dock?”

“Doris said that Hippias came from around here. Were the people of Brauron noticeably pro-Persian during the wars?”

“They can’t have been
that
pro-Persian,” Diotima said.

“No, you’re right,” I said glumly. “All right, they put him off nearby at a small beach. There must be lots of them around here.”

“How old was Hippias?”

“I don’t know. Fifty? Sixty? Seventy? They put him on a small boat and rowed him in.”

“This is all supposition, Nico.”

“But you know it’s right,” I said.

“Yes, I think it is. Why would Hippias split from the Persian force? They were the only ones who could guarantee his safety.”

“Things can’t have been too pleasant between them after that defeat,” I said. “Maybe he was homesick?”

“That’s idiotic, Nico.” Diotima shook her head. “Failed
tyrants don’t risk death to see their old homes. It would have to be something urgent.”

It came to me like a lightning flash. “I’ve got it!” I yelled. “The man in the helmet said he almost killed Hippias during the battle. He said he struck the tyrant with his spear.”

“So?”

“Don’t you see? Hippias came ashore to a place he knew, because
he needed a doctor
.”

T
O FIND THE
right doctor in Brauron was straightforward. There was only one. We obtained the address from Doris. Next morning, we walked into Brauron. Although it was a small town, we managed to get lost instantly. Brauron was an ancient settlement, and nothing was in the normal place. Eventually I stopped a passing stranger.

“Excuse me, can you tell me how to get to Sesamon Street?”

He pointed straight down, at our feet.

We were on it.

Brauron’s main street ran parallel with the shore; Sesamon joined it at the middle, to form a T. The main wharf, the warehouse, the fishing boats, and pretty much everything else of value in Brauron was to be found at that corner, including the doctor’s residence. It was on the side of the street opposite the water.

We knocked and were admitted by a slave. The doctor had converted the front rooms of his house to see patients. We walked straight into his iatrion, his surgery.

Diotima and I despaired the moment we saw Ascetos the Healer. He was a man in his midthirties. Not nearly old enough to have treated an injured tyrant three decades ago.

“Mostly I treat fishing injuries,” he said, when we introduced ourselves. “You wouldn’t believe how many hooks I’ve removed from flesh. Lots of broken bones, drownings, that sort of thing.”

“Were you involved in the unfortunate incident at the sanctuary?” Diotima asked.

“The girl who died? I heard about that.”

“Her name was Allike. The sanctuary didn’t call you in?”

“No, why should they? The girl was dead. I’m a doctor, not a god.”

“There’s also a girl who’s missing,” Diotima said.

“Sorry, I can’t help you.”

We were getting nowhere.

“We’re wasting the doctor’s time and our own, too,” I said to Diotima. To Ascetos I said, “I’m sorry, Doctor. We only asked about the children when we saw you wouldn’t know about our real reason for coming.”

“And what was that?”

“Whether Hippias the Tyrant had ever come here.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” he said. “I can tell you all about
that
.”

N
OW THAT HE
had a story to tell, Ascetos called for wine and settled us on dining couches, as if we were honored guests.

“You should know my father was doctor here before me. Doctors’ sons almost always take up the profession.”

“The same thing happens with sculptors’ sons,” I said. It was my strong desire to avoid sculpture that had first moved me to take up investigation.

Ascetos said, “I was five years old, I think, but I already knew I was destined to become a doctor, so when the stranger bashed at the door in the dead of night, I took particular interest. Only the most interesting—that is to say, urgent—cases come at night.”

“It was Hippias?”

“It was he. Though I didn’t know that until my father told me later, and I didn’t realize the fame of our patient, or the import of what had happened, until many years had passed. All I knew back then was, when Father opened the door, a stranger staggered in.”

“How was he?”

“Except for the gaping wound in his throat, perfectly fine.

Father placed him on the examination couch. That’s the one you’re lying on at the moment, young lady—I’ve lost count of how many people have died on that couch … Where was I? Oh yes, the strange patient. He lay down, and there was a wound in the lower throat. Father peered in. So did I. I’m afraid I made rather a nuisance of myself.

“Hippias was unbelievably lucky. The slash that had opened the skin had missed everything vital. I could actually
see
the blood vessel pulsing. Sometimes when someone’s been torn open by a ship’s grappling hook, the blood pulses out in great spurts and then the man dies—sometimes the man lives long enough to reach me, but there’s nothing anyone can do. Somehow, Hippias had managed to survive. The gods must have favored him like no other man. He could speak; he could eat. Amazing.”

“Did he say how he came to be in Brauron?”

“If he did, it wasn’t in my presence.”

“What did your father do?”

“Closed the wound as best he could, and told his patient to lie still. Very, very still. For a very, very long time. Hippias asked if he was going to die—they always ask that—Father said it lay with the gods—the usual reply.”

“How long was a very, very long time?”

“Until the flesh had healed and Hippias could stand up without the risk of bits of his throat falling out. Months, I should think, given what I know now.”

“Surely Hippias didn’t lie here all that time!”

“A few days later, men came and carried him away to recuperate.”

“Where?”

“To a local estate.”

A long pause, from both Diotima and me. This was the discovery we’d been looking for. I said, slowly, “You wouldn’t happen to remember which estate he was taken to, would you, Doctor?”

“I was only five. Nobody tells a five-year-old anything. Father went to visit his patient from time to time, to check his recovery. I never accompanied him.”

“Your father went to the estate where Hippias was hidden?” Diotima repeated. “
How long
was he away on each visit?”

Ascetos saw her point. “You want to find this place, don’t you? Well, Father always left first thing in the morning and returned in time for his afternoon practice. I presume he ate lunch before he returned. A typical consultation would last the amount of time required to pray to the gods, perform a small sacrifice, and perhaps even inspect the patient. The place you’re looking for is within half a morning’s walk of this surgery.”

“You said men came to carry Hippias. That’s a long way to carry a man,” I said.

“They used a board. It’s a standard technique: the patient lies on a wide plank of wood; we strap him down so he doesn’t roll off. With such an arrangement, men fore and aft could carry him forever.”

“A board,” Diotima said in an even tone. I knew what she was thinking. The bones of Hippias had been found laid out on a board. That board was now back at the sanctuary.

“I know this is a lot to ask,” I said, “but is it possible you might recognize that board if you saw it again?”

“Surely it’s rotted away by now, or been used for firewood.”

“Just supposing.”

Ascetos cocked his head to one side and puzzled. “It’s possible. Father always used a particular size, and I never varied from his practice.”

“So the boards you use now are the same?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Is there one here we could look at?”

“Look behind you.”

Diotima and I both swiveled in our seats. Propped up against the wall was a wide plank. I decided not to inquire about the
deep-red and brown stains that I observed in certain depressing locations. Instead I noted that the doctor’s plank was close enough to the panel back at the sanctuary. I asked, “Why didn’t your father tell anyone about this?”

“Talk about a patient? Good doctors don’t do that, and my father was one of the best. Besides, what’s it matter?”

Diotima and I traded a look. Ascetos didn’t know about the skeleton found in the cave. Obviously word had not spread to Brauron, despite being common knowledge in Athens.

“Do you know where Hippias went?” Diotima asked.

Ascetos shrugged. “I presume a boat picked him up and took him back to Persia.”

“How would a boat pick up Hippias?”

“If you look out the window, you’ll observe a wharf. They’re very convenient for that sort of thing.”

“Let me rephrase that. How would a
Persian
boat retrieve him?”

Ascetos shrugged. “You’d have to ask the Persians. I’ll tell you one thing: both before and after Marathon, this town was pro-Hippias. Maybe the only place in Attica that was for him. If a Persian boat
did
dock, the townspeople might have looked the other way.”

“Is it possible Hippias died of his wounds while still here at Brauron?”

“No.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Yes.”

Diotima and I awaited an explanation. Ascetos eventually relented.

“Look, my father always got upset when a patient died. He was funny like that. Well, Father never got upset about Hippias.”

“Any idea how Hippias died?”

“All I can tell you is, when Hippias left my father’s care, he was still alive.”