The Marathon Conspiracy (26 page)

“Are they friends of the household? Do we know them?” Diotima asked.

“No, mistress. They have attendants, and they carry baskets.”

Diotima and I shared a look. For a woman to visit a strange house without her husband was unheard of. Unless she was a working girl, and matrons with slaves didn’t do that sort of work.

“Show them in.”

As the slave departed, Diotima said to my mother, “Thank you, Phaenarete.”

Phaenarete shrugged. “It’s the way of things, dear. Just be good to the slaves.”

“Of course.”

“Your arrival makes me all too conscious of the passing of my years. A young mistress in the house … I remember when that was me, in this very courtyard. I was terrified.”

Two women entered, almost the same age as my mother, followed by more attendants than I could quickly count. I was struck by the attendants—every one of them wore quality clothes that had been ripped to pieces—and even more so by the hair of one of the women: it had been cut roughly, almost to the scalp, and what remained stuck out in all directions. Her eyes were very, very red.

“My name is Aposila,” said the lady with the shredded hair. “I am the mother of Allike.” She paused. “I
was
the mother of Allike.” She sobbed. Her friend put an arm around her to comfort her.

Diotima said, “We’re very sorry.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be at home?” I asked. Diotima threw me a nasty look, but I meant the question well. Women in mourning are not supposed to be out and about.

“This is the ninth day since the … since the funeral. I carried flowers and fruit and cakes and libations to Allike’s tomb, as the custom decrees. She always liked fruit cake. I made it with my own hands and left it by the urn.”

That meant Allike had been cremated, and her ashes lay in a pelike—a richly decorated jar—in the cemetery at Ceramicus.

I knew who the second woman was, because I had already met her. This was Malixa, the wife of Polonikos and the mother of Ophelia. I introduced her to Diotima and my mother.

Malixa said, “I pray to every god that will listen that I will not soon wear my hair like Aposila.”

Phaenarete made sympathetic noises and looked like she was about to cry.

“Our husbands think we’re going to the cemetery and then straight back home,” Malixa said. “We’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell them we were here.”

“Of course not,” Diotima said. “We knew Allike and Ophelia were friends, but we didn’t realize the families knew each other.”

“We don’t. Or we didn’t,” Malixa said, and shared a look with Aposila. Aposila said, “Malixa came to see me, to offer her sympathies. It was against the laws of proper mourning, but, well, it seemed very appropriate.”

“We discovered we have a lot in common,” Malixa said simply.

“Malixa told me—please tell me if it’s true—that you’re investigating my daughter’s death.”

“It’s true.” I didn’t tell her that as far as the powerful of Athens were concerned, Allike’s death was a side issue to the mystery of Hippias.

“She also told me that you said anything you can learn might help her lost daughter.”

“It’s true.”

“When I told Malixa what I’d seen, she convinced me to come see you.”

“Oh?” I said, suddenly interested.

Aposila said, “We’ve come to you because our husbands—both of them—seem absolutely determined to do nothing about their daughters.”

Polonikos, the father of Ophelia, had his financial problems with a dowry, but I couldn’t imagine the coincidence of two fathers with the same problem. I said as much to Aposila, and she shook her head.

“At first my husband, Antobius, was furious. He demanded that the killer be caught. I’m not sure he had any idea how to catch a killer, but he said the sanctuary must know who’d done it. He said he would sue the sanctuary, take them to court, and expose them for negligence. That was on the day we heard the news.” Aposila paused to wipe her face of tears. “Then, overnight, he changed his mind. He decided not to pursue the killer. It happened,” she said bitterly, “after the stranger called.”

Phaenarete called for refreshments. Slaves brought small bowls of figs, olives, grapes, goat’s cheese and flat bread, and cups of heavily watered wine.

We wanted to know everything about strange visitors.

“It was late at night,” Aposila went on. “Antobius and I were settling down for the night, when the house slave came to say there was a caller at the door. We never have visitors that late. Antobius would have told the slave to shut the door on him, but the stranger said it was urgent. Antobius went out to see him.”

“Did you see him?” Diotima asked.

“They stood outside, in the dark.”

“What did you do?”

“I watched out of the window. They talked for a long time. They were too far away for me to hear what they were saying; I heard voices but no words, and it was dark. But I could swear I
saw the stranger hand my husband a bag. From the look of it, the bag was full and heavy. From the way Antobius hefted it, I think there were coins in it. Then the stranger walked away.”

“When was this?”

“The day after we heard Allike had died.”

Malixa spoke up. “The moment Aposila told me this, I knew you needed to know.”

“You were right,” I said with feeling. “Did the stranger return?”

“Not that I saw. But my husband acted differently.”

“How so?”

Aposila shifted in her seat. “Antobius had been angry before, but next morning he was mollified. When I asked him about the strange visitor, he said it was business. I told him I’d seen the bag and asked him what was in it. He became angry and ordered me never to mention the incident again.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“What did your husband do?”

“Nothing. After that night, he never again said anything against the sanctuary, nor blamed them for Allike’s death.” Now Aposila clenched her hands in anguish. “When I pressed him, he said he’d decided to let the matter rest.”

“I’m confused,” I said. “How does he explain the death of his daughter?”

In Athens, by law, a man was required to investigate the murder of any close relative. It was the only investigation that was guaranteed. Polonikos, the father of Ophelia, could argue that so far his daughter was only missing, but if Antobius, the father of Allike, refused to look into his own daughter’s death, he’d be in flagrant breach of the law.

“My husband said that our daughter had been unlucky, that a wild bear had killed her. He said the stranger told him there’d been reports.”

If true, that meant no crime had been committed. We knew
there really was a bear, which meant Antobius was permitted to make such a finding—technically.

“When Aposila told me this, I became desperate,” said Malixa, the mother of Ophelia. “I had thought that perhaps when Allike’s killer was found, it might bring us to my daughter. But if Antobius does nothing, then who will find the truth? Who will find my Ophelia?”

“If anyone can find your child, it’s my son,” Phaenarete said. “I promise you.”

My jaw dropped. It was the first time my mother had ever said a word about my investigation work, and she’d begun with a promise I wasn’t sure I could keep.

“What do you think?” Diotima asked Aposila. “What do you want to do?”

“What can I do?” Aposila said. “Tend the grave of my daughter and care for my family. I have two other children—sons—but I loved Allike best.” Aposila paused, took a deep breath, then said, “I am determined to divorce my husband.”

Diotima and Phaenarete gasped.

I asked, “Are you sure about this?”

Aposila said, “When I pressed him on the death of my daughter, he refused. Then, when I demanded that he do something, when I said I would go to the archons if he continued to do nothing, he struck me repeatedly.”

“What!”

I could barely believe it, but now that I looked at Aposila, I could see the bruising about her left eye—there was a dark tinge to her cheek beneath the white makeup.

I had only one question.

“What are the rules for getting divorced?” I asked. It wasn’t something I’d ever thought about.

“I don’t know,” Aposila said. “One hears of these cases, but no one ever talks about the details. I want you to find out,” said Aposila. “Act for me as my agent, Nicolaos.”

“Me?”
I said, aghast.

“Yes. I’ll pay you.”

I scratched my head as I thought about it. “I don’t know,” I said. “This might be setting a bad precedent.”

“Please,” she begged. “My daughter is dead. My husband doesn’t care. You’re the only man who’ll help me.”

“Nico, we must help this woman,” Diotima said. She didn’t look at me as she spoke. She stared at the bruising beneath the skin of Aposila.

I didn’t see myself as the sort of investigator who would take on family cases, but it was impossible to say no to a lady who’d lost her only daughter. Especially one with a black eye.

“Very well, Aposila. I’ll do what I can.”

But first, Diotima and I would have to interview Antobius, to see if he’d had anything to do with his own daughter’s death.

A
NTOBIUS, THE FATHER
of Allike, lived in the deme of Phrearrhioi, which lies within the city walls in the southern part of Athens. Phrearrhioi was very much an upper-class neighborhood, and the house of Antobius was very much an upper-class house, as I could tell at once from the quality of the herm he’d placed by his front door. The bust of the god Hermes was made in bronze, in the latest fashion, and had been painted for realism. I marveled at the eyes, which seemed to watch me wherever I stood. In the case of Antobius, I thought it a pity the herm hadn’t protected his own daughter.

Aposila was out of sight when we arrived, whether by coincidence or because she knew we were coming to interview her husband, I didn’t know.

Antobius saw us in his courtyard, which was predictably populated with comfortable couches, had a well-paved floor of flat stones, and was surrounded by neatly painted columns in red and green. He was a thickset man in a chiton. I wondered if he’d done manual labor in his past, from the width of his forearms.

When I delicately approached the matter of taking a bag of money in the dead of night, I got a surprising answer.

“How do you know that?” he asked.

“You talked with the man out on the street. You were seen.”

Antobius watched me, clearly waiting for the name of his accuser. I silently held his gaze until he got the message that I wouldn’t be revealing the informant.

Antobius sighed. “A neighbor, no doubt. I hate nosy neighbors,
particularly when they don’t understand what they’re seeing, and in this city, everyone talks. All right, I admit it,” said Antobius. “I was paid money that night.”

I gasped in shock.

“You took money to ignore the death of your own daughter?” Diotima said, her tone making it clear what she thought of that.

“Not at all,” Antobius said calmly. He seemed oblivious to the reaction he’d provoked. “I’d already decided that my daughter’s death was a misfortune sent upon her by the gods.”

“You can’t be serious,” I blurted.

“I am. Allike was killed by a bear. Such a thing must have been ordained by the gods, perhaps by Artemis herself, since the bear is her special servant. I don’t know what Allike did to deserve such a fate, but I for one am not going to take issue with the gods.”

Diotima asked, “Did you see her body?”

“She was cremated and her ashes returned to us. They lie in the cemetery at Ceramicus.”

“If you didn’t see the wounds, how do you know a bear killed her?” Diotima said.

“Because everyone who saw her says so.”

It was, unfortunately, a perfectly adequate answer. Even if I didn’t believe it for a moment. Privately, I gave Aposila a mark of approval for wanting to divorce this man. I made sure I kept my face expressionless, reminded myself not to glance up to the women’s quarters of the house, and asked, “Who was your visitor?”

“I rather thought it must be someone from the temple,” Antobius said.

“You didn’t ask his name?” I said.

“He didn’t offer it.”

“So when a man turned up, offering to pay you for the death of your daughter, you didn’t think to ask any questions?”

“I saw it more as a monetary consolation for our loss. It was all according to the law, I assure you.”

According to the law, my ass. I’d become a minor expert on homicide law, and I knew perfectly well it was illegal to accept blood money for a death. A man has an absolute obligation to prosecute the killer of any member of his family.

Antobius said to me. “I understand you act for the temple?”

“Yes.”

“Then perhaps you should ask them the name of the man who came to me. I’m sure someone there would know him. You may also tell the temple that I hold them blameless. I expect they’ll be relieved to hear it.”

D
IOTIMA STAGGERED FROM
the house in shock. “Nico, he took blood money.”

“I know that, and you know that, but can we prove it? Antobius will maintain the money was a gift. Did you notice he was clever enough to dispute the interpretation of what was seen, but not the veracity of the witness? He doesn’t know who saw him, so he had to admit to what some reputable citizen might have reported.”

“We have to help Aposila against him.”

“Yes,” I agreed.

“Why would someone pay to shut down an investigation?” Diotima said.

“Well, the murderer might have a vested interest,” I said. “If that was him, then we’re looking for a man.”

Diotima said, “Have you forgotten what Socrates pointed out on the road back from Brauron? We all agreed we’d left the killer behind at the sanctuary.”

“There’s no chance that someone could have passed us on the road,” I said, rubbing my chin in thought.

“And if someone was away long enough to bribe a father in Athens, their absence from the sanctuary would have been noted,” Diotima added.

“Then it
wasn’t
the murderer Antobius met,” I said.