I took my father and half brother home with me, and before they fell asleep on their pallets, my father cried.
“The old days are gone,” he said. “Our glorious victories against the Persians. Now we do not act as one. We argue and discuss. We disparage and mock. Then we come to a compromise.”
“It is the way of democracy,” I told him. “It is better than old rigid codes of honor and hatred. They were murderous.”
But I don’t think he was convinced.
The next day Nicias gave a surprisingly good performance in Ion’s play, and the day after, Euripides shocked us all with biting irony. It was the fifth day of the festival that we learned about the murder. We had all gathered in the theatre again, most of us arguing that Sophocles would win first prize easily. He did. A thunderous cheer rose from the theatre as the ivy crown was placed on Sophocles’ head. The prize ram was led out to him. We cheered too when Tidius took first prize for acting.
It was only when the second prize for acting was announced that we all realized that Nicias was not in the theatre to receive his reward.
The judges consulted with each other; the priests looked annoyed.
“Well, he was here late last night,” Phidias said.
“You saw him?” I asked. “Where? And when?”
Phidias nodded. “I was out very late. I’ve already studied the effects of the sun on the angles of the new pediments on the Parthenon, so I wanted to see exactly how the moonlight would touch the front pediment. I saw Nicias going into the theatre.”
“Alone?”
Phidias looked back at the center circle of the theatre where the playwrights, judges, and actors were standing. He shrugged. “Alone? Who’s to say if he was or wasn’t? What I can say is that I saw Nicias going into the theatre.”
Phidias was no sophist or politician. He was an artist. His attempt at dissembling was weak. I knew he was lying.
The awarding of the prizes went on, but I was not surprised to see Pericles send two men into the skene. Nor was I surprised when, sometime later, one of the men made his way up the wooden seats and whispered to me that when the ceremony was over Pericles wanted to talk with me.
I waited until most of the audience had filed out of the theatre, some talking of Sophocles’ victory, some of the criticism of the old warrior code in his play, and some of Nicias’ absence. Not a few people kept on eye on me as I made my way toward the skene. Some of them knew that I was in Pericles’ small circle of trusted friends and that I had previously helped with some homicides.
Inside the skene, Pericles and two of the city magistrates who had charge of organizing this year’s festival of Dionysus stood talking quietly.
“Kleides,” Pericles said as I approached, “Nicias has been murdered. I need your help. You must discover who did this. It is imperative.”
I frowned. “Of course, I’ll do what I can. But what is the urgency? When and if the perpetrator is known, Nicias’ relatives can bring the charges to the homicide court.” That was our Athenian procedure. Pericles usually asked me to investigate only if the murder posed some danger to the democracy. Aspasia, of course, once asked me to solve a murder because of danger to Pericles himself.
Pericles turned to the magistrates. “Perhaps you would go out and relieve the Scythians who are guarding the body at the foot of the Acropolis. I will explain to Kleides what we have found and then send him out to see.”
The magistrates looked at each other, apparently as puzzled by Pericles’ actions as I was. But they obeyed, and left by one of the side entrances.
Pericles held his chin in his hand and looked as thoughtful as he did when he was about to address our assembly to persuade them to vote for a policy he favored. He usually got his way. We all knew that much of the glory of our city was due to his wisdom in making Athens a place where art, philosophy, and literature thrived.
I waited. He seemed to be struggling with a decision.
Finally he looked at me directly, his dark, intelligent eyes brooding beneath his high, broad forehead. “I do not hesitate because I do not trust you with this information, Kleides. I know your discretion and your fairness. I hesitate because what I need to tell you is not easy for me to say.”
This was most unusual. Pericles was known as “The Olympian,” not only for his intelligence and his aloofness from the more garrulous and dionysiac social life of the city, but for his ease and beauty of expression. I waited.
“Kleides, last night Sophocles spent part of the evening with Aspasia and myself. An hour or two after dusk, he said that he wanted to go to the theatre for some scrolls he had left at the skene. He came to and left from my house by himself.”
“So,” I said, “he has no witnesses to swear to where he was last night or when. I take it that Nicias was killed here in the theatre.”
“Indeed, he was.” Pericles pointed to a dark stain on the floor. It looked newer than the other myriad stains from paint, slain animals, the gods only knew what. The new stain spread toward one of the side entrances as if what or whoever had bled had been pulled along toward the door.
“Were more people than you and Aspasia at your house to hear Sophocles announce that he was coming to the theatre?” I asked.
“Yes. One or two of those people are not known for holding their tongues in check. So this murder must be solved.”
I nodded. “And were there some at your house who would bite their tongues rather than implicate Sophocles?”
Pericles raised his thick eyebrows.
“Phidias,” I said. “He let slip that he was out late last night and saw Nicias going to the theatre. He dissembled when I asked if he saw only Nicias. It was quite easy to see that he was protecting someone.”
Pericles shook his head. “Phidias is a supreme artist. But his mastery of clever rhetoric is, ah, incomplete, let us say. But Sophocles must be innocent. By all the gods on Olympus, what reason would he have for killing Nicias?”
“I’m afraid there might be one. Nicias’ relatives, at least, might well devise one if they hear gossip. Yesterday in the agora, Nicias implied that Sophocles might try to influence some of the judges. Nicias took no pains to speak low. He could easily have been overheard. If he were, well then word will fly round Athens in very little time.”
Pericles pushed back on his head the helmet he wore in public, releasing some graying curls round his temples. He was aging. I wondered if Athens’ great glory could survive without him. “Nicias’ charges are absurd,” he said. “Sophocles’ genius is quite sufficient to capture first prize.”
“Of course,” I said. “He is most likely innocent. It would take much provocation to bring him to brutal violence.”
Pericles smiled. “Ever the Sophist, Kleides. You will not concede that one of such beauty, honesty, and charm as Sophocles could not kill.”
“Beauty, honesty, and charm are indeed his virtues, as is great intelligence and talent. But these do not constitute the whole of human nature for any man.”
“Well, I persist in believing in Sophocles’ innocence. But I am happy to have your open and inquiring mind to which I can trust this matter. Go out, Kleides, to where Nicias’ body lies and put that mind to work.”
I made my way out of the skene, went down the steps of the stone retaining wall, across the drainage channel, and behind the theatre to the rocky foundation of the Acropolis. As I approached, one of the magistrates tossed his head, indicating something behind him. I noticed that his olive complexion looked particularly green. I walked behind the greenish magistrate and looked down. I may have turned a little green myself. I swallowed, willing the barley porridge I’d eaten this morning to stay down where it belonged.