“What did you do?”
“Tripled my fee at once. Then I induced vomiting, to remove as much of the poison as I could. It’s the nature of hemlock that it’s a relatively slow death. Unfortunately considerable time had passed before I was called. The patient had already lost feeling in his feet, which meant much of the poison had already entered his body.”
“Is that normal?”
“That’s how death proceeds. The patient loses all feeling in his feet, then his legs. The lack of sensation progresses upward until it reaches the heart, which stops.”
“I see.”
“That’s why I never prescribe hemlock. It is much, much too easy to make a mistake.” He held up the scroll. “But I must say it’s unlikely anyone would accidentally take too much. The taste is distinctive.”
“What if it were mixed in wine?” Diotima asked.
Heraclides thought about that for a moment. “Possible,” he conceded. “Especially if the wine has been made with fenugreek. The fenugreek would mask the taste.”
Most Hellene wine has fenugreek added.
“But I doubt a fatal dose could be hidden that way,” Heraclides finished.
“What about a succession of nonfatal doses?” Diotima asked.
“That’s possible. But there’d be no lasting effect.”
“What are you getting at, Diotima?” I asked.
“The vials are small,” she said to me.
“All right, but this can’t be how Arakos died,” I said. “We’ve gone down the wrong path.”
Diotima asked, “Is there some way to tell if a man has died of hemlock poisoning?”
“None, once he’s dead. It’s indistinguishable from death by natural causes.”
“There’d be no sign at all?”
“Well, the aroma of the hemlock might remain in the mouth. But that’s not a medical sign.”
Diotima said, “Heraclides, would you come with us to the body of Arakos? I’d like your opinion on how he died.”
Heraclides looked at Diotima as if she’d asked him to descend into Hades. “You expect me to go near a corpse? Are you mad?”
“Don’t you do it all the time?”
“I’m a doctor. The idea is to not be with a corpse.”
Heraclides took back his son from Socrates. The two had been staring at each other and making faces.
“He’s cute when you get used to him,” Socrates admitted.
“When he’s grown, we’ll practice medicine together,” he said proudly. “They’ll call us Heraclides and Son.”
“What’s his name?”
“Hippocrates,” said the proud father. The baby looked up with big, round, loving eyes.
As we walked, I said, “Diotima, what was all that about Arakos taking hemlock? We know that’s not how he died.”
“But think, Nico. The guilt of Timodemus hangs on the fact that only he could have beaten Arakos to death.”
“Yes?”
“What if someone poisoned Arakos with hemlock? Not enough to kill him, but enough to slow him down.”
“Dear Gods, you’re right. Even a weak woman could beat to death a man who can’t move.”
“It needn’t be even so much hemlock. Merely enough that a normal man could do him in.”
“Which means-”
“The killer is not limited to Timodemus. Anyone could have beaten Arakos to death, as long as they had access to his food. Of course, this is only a theory-”
“Come on.” I took her by the hand and dragged her along the muddy path.
“Where are we going?”
“I want to smell the mouth of a dead body.”
“There might be a slight smell of something, but …” I knelt back, disappointed. “I don’t know, Diotima. I can’t smell a thing over the … er … over the other smell.” I tried not to breathe as I spoke.
“He’s been dead a while now,” Diotima admitted. Indeed, it was a hot summer, the taint of corruption was strong about the body of Arakos, and a cloud of flies had settled in for the long term.
“There’s no evidence here,” I said.
“Sorry, Nico.”
“Don’t be. Your idea was brilliant.”
“There’s only one thing we can do: confront Festianos with the evidence, and see what he says. Nico, I think perhaps I should learn something about medicine,” Diotima mused, almost to herself.
“Why?” I exclaimed.
“You heard Heraclides. Doctors wouldn’t be seen dead around a corpse. Don’t you think it would be useful if we could study a corpse?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. You just don’t want your wife to do it.”
“Are you arguing with me?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. Wives are supposed to obey their husbands. It hadn’t occurred to me that someday my wife might refuse to obey me.
I asked, “Is Festianos a doctor?”
“How should I know?” Diotima said.
“Nico, I’ve been thinking,” said Socrates. “I’m pretty sure the uncle isn’t a doctor.”
“Oh come now, Socrates, how can you possibly know?” Diotima said.
“Did you see all the instruments and things in the tent of Heraclides? He had jars of scrolls and bronze instruments.”
“So?”
“I sneaked a look inside while you searched the uncle’s tent. Festianos had none of those things.”
Diotima looked at Socrates in wonder. “Try not to think so much, Socrates. It’ll only get you into trouble.”
“Yes, Diotima.”
Apollo’s light was well to the west. This being the middle of summer, the Sun God would remain with us longer.
Soon it would be dinnertime. This was the evening assigned for the negotiation between our fathers for the marriage between myself and the woman who, as far as I was concerned, was already my wife.
I sent Socrates to our tents with orders to make sure everything was ready and to collect wine. I escorted Diotima to her tent to dress for the dowry negotiation. Typically the prospective bride and groom would go nowhere near such talks, but in the special circumstances our attendance was required.
Diotima entered her tent while I waited outside.
I waited a long time.
“Are you all right in there?” I called. “What’s keeping you?”
“Everything!”
I went in.
I found Diotima naked, which was nice but not quite according to plan. How long does it take to change a chiton?
“I can’t decide what to wear,” she wailed. “Should I dress as a modest young woman or a forthright woman of the world?”
Diotima, indecisive?
“Go with the modest maiden,” I advised, thinking that would most likely please my father.
“A bit too late for that, but I’ll try for modest,” she said nervously.
I was nervous too, more than I’d been in a long while. Whether or not our fathers could agree would affect the rest of our lives; whatever decision they reached would bind us, and I had no idea what was about to happen.
Diotima, on the other hand, had a clear view.
“This meeting is all about the state of my genitals,” she said as she wrapped about herself an unrevealing chiton of dull browns and reds.
“That’s true,” I admitted.
“So why can’t I speak for myself?”
“Because your genitals are the concave sort,” I said. “Listen, Diotima, I’m very happy about the state of your genitals.”
“You better be. They’re your doing.”
“You don’t regret it, do you?” I asked, alarmed at the bitter tone of her voice.
She smiled. “No, Nico, I don’t. Not at all. I’m sorry if I sound tense, but I’m worried about this meeting between your father and Pythax.”
“So am I.”
Poor girl, she was embarrassed about the whole thing. This problem existed because she’d chosen to get into bed with me-with, it must be said, substantial encouragement on my part-and now two old men were about to discuss her sex life.
I lifted the tent flap for her to exit. Outside, she said, “Your father doesn’t like me.”
I nodded. There was no point denying it. “It’s not you personally, Diotima; it’s so important to him that his grandchildren be citizens, and your family is … er …”