I turned back to the magistrates and told them to return inside and have Pericles send the Scythian police back to collect the body.
The magistrates left with, I thought, a look of gratitude on their faces.
I took a moment or two to make sure that the porridge remained below, then turned back to Nicias’ body. He’d been stabbed. In the bowels. The blood had flowed freely and caked in dark brown streaks down to his knees. His eyes were open and his features distorted into a grimace.
He had met a painful and violent end.
I swallowed again and knelt for a better look at the wound. It was too large to have been made with a knife. Someone had thrust a sword into him.
I rose and looked around. But there were no footprints. The terrain here was too rocky to have taken any.
I looked at Nicias again and noted that a gold ring still encircled a finger on his left hand. No thief had done the deed. I hadn’t thought so anyway. A thief would have struck from the back. A clean blow to the head. This crime spoke of rage.
I directed the Scythians to wrap the body and take it to the prison house near the South Stoa until Pericles could send someone to notify the dead man’s relatives.
I left the area, circling round to the hill of the Pnyx. No one would be at our assembly site. The democracy had no meetings set for today. The festival was not officially over until the end of the day. Most Athenians would be celebrating in the agora, at local taverns, or at their own homes. I would be left alone to think.
Like Pericles, I did not wish to think Sophocles guilty of homicide. But like Socrates, I knew that human nature was possessed complete by all men, with all its virtues and evils. I knew, too, that popular opinion that good resided in the fair and evil in the ugly, was wrong. The surface did not necessarily reflect the interior.
Thus I steeled myself for questioning Sophocles. I would have to reveal honestly to Pericles whether his answers tended to his guilt or innocence.
I returned to the theatre, and in inquiring of those who remained milling about, discovered that Sophocles had declared his intention of returning to his home to prepare for an evening’s celebration to which I was, of course, invited.
I dug in the hem of my cloak and found an obol to pay a disheveled water boy to go to Sophocles’ home and request that he meet me back at the theatre on an urgent matter.
I returned to the skene, not wanting to leave the place where I believed a key piece of evidence might still lay.
I looked around for the sword upon which Ajax, in the person of Tidius, had fallen. It was, I suspected, the sword that had killed Nicias. It would have hung upon the wooden wall of the skene, where the props were kept for ease of access during performances. It could conveniently and easily have served another function: murder.
I didn’t see the sword. The murderer would have taken it away, stained with blood as it no doubt was.
I thought of all who had a grievance against Nicias and would have easy access: Sophocles, of course; Phidias; Tidias; anyone else who had business at the theatre, including Euripides and Ion of Chios; all the other actors and members of the choruses. For that matter, I thought, if the skene had not been padlocked, anyone offended by Nicias could have entered to take and return the sword. I found myself relieved and glad to have suspects other than Sophocles. This, for a Sophist, would not do. I had to bring my emotions into check.
I heard the wooden door open and turned to see Sophocles outlined against the bright air outside.
He blinked. “Kleides?” he said, glancing round.
I stepped away from the wall where I had just tried to open a firmly latched chest. “I’m over here, Sophocles. Thank you for coming so promptly.”
“The messenger boy said it was urgent.”
“Indeed, it is. Have you not wondered where Nicias was for the ceremonies this morning?”
“I did, Kleides. I fear he may be gravely offended by his second place, though surely all recognize that Tidius deserved the first prize.” Sophocles moved into the skene, still blinking to adjust his eyes. “Have you news of him?”
I moved toward him, taking a deep breath. In the light that came through the open door, I saw that the forehead of his handsome face was furrowed in genuine or pretended concern. His brown beard, a little longer than Pericles’, was as well groomed as the curved eyebrows above his large, wide-spaced eyes. Not one’s idea of a murderer.
“Nicias has much to be offended at,” I said. “He has been murdered. Probably here at the theatre.”
Sophocles did not move. He stared at me. “Kleides,” he said finally, “surely you are... but no, how could you be mistaken about such a thing.” He shook his head. “How? Who?”
“And why?” I said. “Pericles has asked me to inquire into the matter.”
“Of course. You are best at such work. But why did you send for...” He paused again. “Oh, yes. Of course.” He nodded, his quick intelligence understanding. “I did announce last night that I was coming over to the theatre for some scrolls. In fact, Nicias had sent a message that he wanted to meet me here. And so he did. But when I left him, he was most alive. Angry, but alive.”
“What did he want?”
“He urged me to select him as my main actor for next year’s Great Dionysia.”
“Well, I know...”
Sophocles held up his hand, stopping me. “More than that, Kleides. He threatened that if I did not announce the choice soon, he would spread the rumor that I had influenced the judges this year, worked to get those I knew on the selection lists.”
I nodded. “You didn’t, of course.”
“A statement, Kleides, or a question?”
I smiled. “I am a Sophist, Sophocles. I distinguish between what I know and what I believe. I know that you influenced the judges by the brilliance of your plays. But I don’t know that you didn’t use other influences, though I believe that you did not.”
“I did not, Kleides.”
“What did you say to Nicias?”
“Very little. I laughed and told him to lock the skene when he left. He is an actor. He has a key. Then I left.”
“Leaving him behind, angry but alive?”
“Yes. I swear. That is true. But then, you Sophists, above all, know that language can be used in the service of truth or lie.”
“Yes. As a sword might be used to imitate a death, as in your play, or to truly kill someone.”
“By all the gods, Kleides. Are you saying that the sword I used in the play was the murder weapon?”
“Perhaps. It is not here now.”
“But who has taken it?” He held up his hand again. “A stupid question. The murderer, of course. But you are sure it is gone?”
I gestured at the walls. “Wouldn’t it be hanging on the wall?”
“Normally,” Sophocles said, “while we are rehearsing. But once the festival is over, we put the props in a chest and retrieve them when we have opportunity.” He moved to the left side of the skene, bent over, and yanked open a chest. He pulled out a sword and turned to me.
I am ashamed to say that, for a moment, I measured the distance to the open door, wondering how fast I could run out and up the wooden seats to safety.
Sophocles held the sword out to me.
I took it. “I need to see it in the light,” I said, moving toward the open door, Sophocles following.
I stepped out and onto the little slope that led to the great circle of the theatre. I lifted the sword and examined it in the sunlight. I could find no stain upon it. It would have been wiped clean by the murderer, but blood tended to leave traces on metal no matter how vigorous the rubbing. I turned to Sophocles and showed him the sword. “No blood. This was not the murder instrument.” I felt immensely relieved. It was unlikely that Sophocles had come to the theatre last night armed against Nicias. He would have had no knowledge of what Nicias wanted. Unless Nicias had said so in his message.