The Athenian Murders

  'I thought you were. What are you, then?' 'A Decipherer of Enigmas,' replied Heracles. 'What's that?'

  Heracles thought for a moment. 'On reflection, it's not unlike what Iphimachus does,' he said. 'Giving an opinion on mysterious things.'

  The boy's eyes sparkled but then, as if suddenly remembering his duties, he lowered his voice and announced: 'My mistress will see you presently.'

  'Thank you.'

  The boy left the room and Heracles, still smiling, realised he didn't know his name. He occupied himself by observing the tiny weightless particles floating around the lamps - suffused with their light, they looked like gold filings. He tried to find some order or pattern to the motion of the specks, but soon had to look away; he knew that his curiosity, hungry to decipher ever more complex images, risked losing itself in the infinite intimacy of things.

  As Itys entered, her cloak flapped like wings in the draught. Though still pale and with shadow-ringed eyes, her face appeared less ravaged. Her gaze had lost some of its darkness and seemed clear and light. Her slavewomen bowed before Heracles.

  'We honour you, Heracles Pontor. I apologise for my poor hospitality - good cheer sits ill with grief.'

  'I am grateful for your hospitality, Itys, and would not wish for any other.'

  She motioned towards one of the couches. 'At least let me offer you some undiluted wine.'

  'Not this early in the day, thank you.'

  She waved her hand and the slavewomen left in silence, then she and Heracles reclined on couches facing each other. As Itys arranged the folds of her peplos over her legs, she said: 'You haven't changed, Heracles Pontor. You wouldn't risk a single drop of wine at an unaccustomed hour, even to offer a libation to the gods, in case it ruined even the most insignificant of your thoughts.'

  'You haven't changed either, Itys: you still tempt me with the juice of the vine so that my soul should lose touch with my body and float free in the sky. But my body has grown heavy'

  'Your mind, however, grows ever lighter, doesn't it? I confess, mine does, too. All my mind wishes to do is flee from within these walls. Do you allow yours to fly, Heracles? I can't keep mine locked up. It stretches its wings, and I tell it: 'Take me wherever you like.' But it always takes me to the same place: the past. You can't understand such things, of course, because you're a man. But we women live in the past...'

  'All of Athens lives in the past,' rejoined Heracles.

  'Meragrus would have said something similar.' She smiled faintly. Heracles smiled, too, but then noticed her strange look. 'What happened to us, Heracles?' There was a pause. He lowered his gaze. 'Meragrus, you, your wife Hagesikora and I . . . What happened to us? We followed rules, laws laid down by men who didn't know us and to whom we didn't matter. Laws our fathers obeyed, and our fathers' fathers. Laws with which men must comply but may discuss at the Assembly. We women may not speak of them, even at the Festival of the Thesmophoria when we leave our houses and gather in the Agora. We must remain silent and even abide by your mistakes. As you know, I am no better than any other woman. I cannot read or write, I have not seen other skies, other lands, but I like thinking . . . And do you know what I think? That Athens is made of laws that are as antiquated as the stones of ancient temples. The Acropolis is as cold as a cemetery. The columns of the Parthenon are the bars of a cage and birds cannot fly within it. Peace . . . yes, we have peace. But at what price? What have we done with our lives, Heracles? Things were better in the past. At least, we all thought so . . . And so did our fathers.'

  'They were wrong,' said Heracles. 'Things were no better. Nor were they much worse. There was simply a war.'

  Motionless, Itys said quickly, as if answering a question: 'You loved me then.'

  Heracles felt as if he were outside his body, watching himself as he reclined on a couch, very still, breathing calmly, a neutral look on his face. But he could feel how his body was reacting: his hands , for instance, suddenly felt cold and sweaty.

  'And I loved you,' she added.

  Why had she changed the subject, he wondered. Was she incapable of having a reasonable, balanced conversation, like a man? Why now, suddenly, such personal questions? He shifted uneasily on his couch.

  'Please forgive me, Heracles. Dismiss my words as the delusions of a lonely woman. But I wonder, have you never thought that things might have been different? No, that's not what I mean. I know that you've never thought about it. But have you never felt it?'

  And now this absurd question! He decided he must have lost the habit of talking to women. He could hold a fairly reasonable conversation even with his latest client, Diagoras, despite the obvious incompatibility of their temperaments. But with women? What did she mean by such a question? Surely women couldn't remember each and every emotion they'd ever felt? And even if they could, what did it matter? Feelings, emotions, were like brightly coloured birds: they came and went, as fleeting as dreams. He knew this, but she evidently did not. How was he to explain it to her?

  'Itys’ he said, clearing his throat, 'when we were young, we had certain feelings but now we have other, very different ones. Who can say for sure what would have happened in this case or that? Hagesikora was the woman my parents had me marry and, although she bore me no children, I was happy with her and mourned her when she died. As for Meragrus, he chose you—'

  'I chose him when you chose Hagesikora, for he was the man my parents imposed upon me’ interrupted Itys. 'And I was happy with him and mourned him when he died. And now ... here we are, both moderately happy, not daring to speak of what we have lost, of every wasted opportunity, every slight to our instincts, every affront to our hopes ... reasoning ... inventing reasons.' She paused and blinked, as if only just waking up. 'But I ask you again to forgive my rambling. The last man of the house is gone and . . . what are we women without men? You are the first to visit since the funeral banquet.'

  So grief has made her talk of these things, thought Heracles with sympathy. He tried to sound kind: 'How is Elea?'

  'She can just about endure herself. But she is in torment when she thinks of her terrible solitude.' 'And Daminus of Clazobion?'

  'He is a man of commerce. He will only marry Elea when I am dead. The law would allow it. Since her brother's death, my daughter has legally become an epiclera, and she must marry to prevent our fortune passing to the State. As her uncle through the paternal line, Daminus has the right to take her as his wife. But he has never held me in great esteem, and it has been even worse since Meragrus' death. So he is waiting for me to die, circling like a vulture. I don't care.' She rubbed her arms. 'At least I'll have the certainty of knowing that this house will be part of Elea's inheritance. Anyway, I have no choice: as you may imagine, my daughter has few suitors, since the family has fallen into dishonour.'

  After a brief pause, Heracles said: ‘Itys, I have agreed to carry out a small investigation.' She looked at him. He spoke quickly, sounding formal. 'I can't tell you my client's name, but I assure you he is an honest man. And the investigation has to do with Tramachus ... I thought I ought to take it on ... and to tell you that I had.'

  Irys pressed her lips together. 'So you came to see me as a Decipherer of Enigmas?'

  'No. I came to tell you. I will not trouble you further if you wish me to leave.'

  'What kind of mystery could there be surrounding my son? His life held no secrets for me.'

  Heracles breathed deeply. 'You mustn't worry, my investigation isn't centred on Tramachus, though it does hover around him. It would be a great help to me if you could answer some questions.'

  'Very well,' said Itys reluctantly.

  'Had your son seemed preoccupied over the last few months?'

  She frowned, thoughtful. 'No ... He was the same as always. He didn't appear especially anxious.'

  'Did you spend much time with him?'

  'No, although I wished to. I didn't want to stifle him. He had become very sensitive about such things - they say it happens to sons in households run by
women. He wouldn't tolerate us interfering in his life. He wanted to fly far away.' She paused. 'He longed for the day when he would become an ephebe and leave. And, Hera knows, I never censured him.'

  Heracles nodded, briefly closing his eyes, as if to show that he understood how she felt without her having to put it into words. Then he said: 'I know he attended the Academy'

  'Yes. I wished him to study there for his own sake, but also in memory of his father. As you know, Plato and Meragrus were fairly close friends. According to his tutors, Tramachus was a good student.'

  'What did he do in his spare time?'

  After a brief pause, Itys said: 'I would answer that I don't know, but as a mother I think I do, and whatever it was, Heracles, it can't have been very different from what any other boy his age did. Though he hadn't legally come of age, he had grown into a man. He ran his own life, just like any other man. He wouldn't let us women poke our noses into his affairs. 'Be satisfied with being the best mother in Athens,' he would say . ..' Her pale lips showed the beginnings of a smile. 'But, I repeat, he had no secrets. I was confident that he was being well educated at the Academy, so it didn't trouble me that he seemed distant: I let him fly free.'

  'Was he very devout?'

  Itys smiled and shifted. 'Oh, yes, the Sacred Mysteries. Going to Eleusis is all I have left. You can't imagine what strength it gives me, poor widow that I am, having something to believe in, Heracles . . .' His face remained blank. 'But I haven't answered your question. Yes, he was devout... in his own way. He came to Eleusis with us, if that's what it is to be devout. But he trusted more in his own strengths than in his beliefs.'

  'Do you know Antisus and Euneos?'

  'Of course. His best friends, fellow students at the Academy and scions of noble families. They sometimes came to Eleusis. I have the highest opinion of them: they were worthy.'

  'Itys, was Tramachus in the habit of going hunting alone?'

  'Sometimes. He liked to prove that he was ready for life.' She smiled. 'And so he was.'

  'Please excuse the lack of order to my questions but, as I said, my investigation isn't focused on Tramachus. Do you know Menaechmus, the sculptor poet?'

  Itys narrowed her eyes. She tensed, like a bird about to fly away. 'Menaechmus?' she said, and gently bit her lip. After a brief pause, she added: 'I think . . . Yes, I remember now. He used to come to the house when Meragrus was alive. A strange man, but then my husband had very strange friends. I don't include you.'

  Heracles returned her thin smile, before asking: 'You haven't seen him since then?' Itys said no. 'Do you know if he had any kind of relationship with Tramachus?'

  'No, I don't think so. I'm certain Tramachus never mentioned him.' Itys frowned anxiously. 'Heracles, what is this? Your questions are so ... Even if you can't tell me what you're investigating, at least tell me whether my son's death ... I mean, Tramachus was attacked by a pack of wolves, wasn't he? That's what we were told. That is what happened, isn't it?'

  Still expressionless, Heracles said: 'It is. His death has nothing to do with all this. But I won't trouble you further. Thank you for your help. May the gods be propitious.' -

  He left hurriedly. He had a guilty conscience, for he had had to lie to a good woman.33

  33 My conscience isn't troubling me in the slightest: yesterday I told Helena about the disturbing parallel between events in real life and those in the book. 'You're such a fantasist,' she complained. 'How on earth could Montalo's death have anything to do with the death of a character in a two-thousand-year-old book? You're quite mad! Montalo's death was real, an accident. Whatever happens to the character in the book you're translating is pure fiction. Maybe it's another eidetic device, a secret symbol, or something.' Helena's right, as usual. Her devastating common sense would demolish even Heracles Pontor's most intelligent arguments. And, by the way, fictional as he may be, he is rapidly becoming my favourite character, the only voice that makes sense of all this chaos. What can I say, astonished reader? It suddenly seemed terribly important to find out more about Montalo and his solitary life, so I wrote to Aristides, an academic who was a close friend of his. He replied promptly, saying he'd be happy to see me. I wonder sometimes if I'm trying to imitate Heracles Pontor by carrying out my own investigation. (T.'s N.)

  They say something unprecedented happened that day: an oversight on the part of the temple priests caused hundreds of white butterflies to be released from the great urn of offerings to Athena Nike. That morning, beneath the cool, bright sun of an Athenian winter, their quivering wings, fragile and luminous, invaded the City. Some people saw them enter the unsullied sanctuary of Artemis Brauronia and seek the camouflage of the goddess' snow-white marble; others caught sight of little white flowers flitting around the statue of Athena Promachos, waving their petals, yet not falling to the ground. The butterflies multiplied quickly, beleaguering, without risk of danger, the stone maidens who, needing no help, supported the roof of the Erechtheum; they nested in the sacred olive tree, a gift from aegis-bearing Athena; gleaming, they flew down the hillsides of the Acropolis. An army by now, they erupted, a gentle, feather-light nuisance, into everyday life. Nobody would do anything about them, because they were hardly anything: no more than flickering light, as if Morning had fluttered her delicate eyelashes, sprinkling the fine dust of her gleaming makeup over the City. Watched by the astounded inhabitants, they made their way unhindered through the impalpable ether, to the Temple of Ares and the Stoa of Zeus, the Tholus and the Heliaea, the Theseum and the monument to the Heroes, ever dazzling, flighty, revelling in their translucent freedom. After kissing the friezes of public buildings like capricious little girls, they occupied the trees and snowed, zigzagging, over the grass and the rocks in the springs. Dogs barked at them inoffensively, as they sometimes do at ghosts or whirling dust; cats leapt on to rocks out of their wavering path; mules and oxen raised their heavy heads to stare but, without the capacity for dreams, they weren't saddened.

  At last, the butterflies alighted on men and began to die.34

  When Heracles Pontor returned home at midday, he found his garden covered with a smooth shroud of butterfly corpses. The birds nesting in the cornices or high up in the pines had, in fact, already begun to devour them - hoopoes, cuckoos, goldcrests, rooks, wood pigeons, crows, nightingales, goldfinches - heads bent over the delicacy, busying themselves like artists at their pigments, turning the fine grass green again. It was a strange sight, but Heracles thought it neither a good nor a bad omen, for, among other things, he didn't believe in omens.

  34 This invasion of white butterflies (which is quite absurd - there is no historical evidence to suggest that butterflies were ever used as an offering to Athena Nike) must be eidetic: the ideas of 'flight' and 'wings' - present from the beginning of the chapter - invade the reality of the story. The final image, in my view, is that of the Labour of the Stymphalian Birds, in which Hercules has to chase away the myriad birds plaguing the lake of Stymphalia, which he does by clashing bronze cymbals. And has the reader noticed the cleverly disguised presence of the 'girl with the lily'? Please tell me if you do, reader, or am I imagining it? The little white flowers' and the 'maidens (the caryatids of the Erechtheum) are there, as well as those essential words 'help' ('needing no help') and 'danger' ('beleaguering without risk of danger'), always closely linked with this image! (T.'sN.)

  As he walked up the garden path, a flapping of wings to his right caught his attention. A hunched black shadow emerged from behind the trees, frightening the birds. 'So you like to jump out and startle people now, do you?' smiled Heracles.

  'By Zeus' pointed lightning bolts, I swear I don't, Heracles Pontor,' crackled Eumarchus' old voice. 'You hired me to be discreet, to spy on others without being seen, didn't you? Well, I've learned my trade.'

  Startled by the noise, the birds took wing, abandoning their feast. As they rose, their tiny, agile bodies lit up in the air, then beat down vertically towards the earth, and the two men blinked, dazzled by
the glare of the midday sun at its zenith.35

  'That horrible mask you have for a slave gesticulated that you were out,' said Eumarchus, 'so I patiently awaited your return. I came to tell you that my work has borne fruit.'

  'Did you do as I ordered?'

  'As your hands obey your thoughts. Last night I became my pupil's shadow. I followed him, tirelessly, at a prudent distance, like a female falcon accompanying her young on their first flight. I was a pair of eyes tied to his back as he threaded his way through the crowded streets. He met his friend Euneos at nightfall by the Stoa of Zeus and they set off across the City. They were not walking for pleasure, if you understand me: their volatile steps had a clear destination. But Father Cronus could inflict on me Prometheus' fate, tying me to a rock for a bird to daily peck out my liver with its black beak, and still I could not have imagined a stranger destination, Heracles! I can tell by the faces you're making that you're growing impatient with my tale. Don't worry, I'll get to the point. I found out, at last, where they were going! I'll tell you and you'll be as amazed as I.'