Most boys would have complained, whined, screamed, or threatened to run away from home in order to avoid school, but Socrates quite liked it. Except for having to wake before dawn every day. That he hated.
Every school in Athens begins at first light and ends at dusk. The teachers used to run the schools for even longer, sometimes from dawn to midnight, but after a few boys dropped dead from exhaustion, the parents complained, and laws were passed limiting school time to daylight. The teachers grumbled that modern kids had it too easy-things had been harder in their day-but they stuck to the letter of the law. So dawn to dusk it was.
That was why I knew something interesting had happened when I walked in to see Karinthos standing in our courtyard, during daylight, with an unhappy expression on his face and Socrates in tow.
Karinthos was shown into the andron, the room at the front of the house reserved for men. Sophroniscus was summoned from his sculpting workshop out the back.
It would, of course, have been rude to listen in, so in the moments it took Father to arrive, I ran up the steps two at a time to his private office, pushed through the door, threw myself flat on the floor, and put my ear to the floorboards. The andron was directly below me, and already I could hear every scrape, shuffle, and cough as Socrates and his teacher waited for the master of the house. Then I noticed there was a sizable crack between two of the boards; I put my eye to it. I had a perfect view from above.
I was just in time for Sophroniscus to walk in and greet Karinthos.
Karinthos got straight to the point. “I’m afraid, Sophroniscus, that Socrates can no longer attend my school.”
Sophroniscus rubbed his chin, looked concerned, and asked what Socrates had done. Had he burnt down the school?
“It’s worse than that. He asks me questions,” replied Karinthos.
“I thought students were supposed to ask questions,” Sophroniscus said, looking somewhat nonplussed.
“He asks too many questions,” said Karinthos grimly.
Socrates stood between the two men. His expression said, “Who? Me?”
The conversation continued for some time, but Karinthos was insistent. Socrates had to go.
I cringed. When the neighbors found out that Socrates had been expelled, it would shame our father.
I jumped up, ran down the stairs, flung open the door, and strode into the room. “There you are, Father! I wanted to ask you, can I borrow Socrates for … oh.” I stopped and stared at Karinthos. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had company. Am I interrupting?”
“You’re interrupting,” Sophroniscus grumbled. “But say what you have to say.”
“I only wanted to ask, could I borrow Socrates for a few days?”
I waited for a reaction, but Sophroniscus and Karinthos merely stared at me. Then I told the greatest lie of my life. I said, “I need Socrates’s help with my investigation.”
Socrates beamed.
My stomach lurched. I’d be paying for this forever, but it had to be done, for my family’s honor.
“It might be as long as a month,” I warned them. “Then he’ll be free to go back to school.”
“That’s impossible, son,” Sophroniscus said. “We’re discussing Socrates’s schoolwork now, and I say he’s not to miss a day of school.” Father glared at Karinthos.
I said, “If that’s the only problem, Father, then set your mind at rest. As it happens, there’s a schoolteacher where we’re going. She comes with excellent credentials.”
“She?” Karinthos almost exploded. “You propose to replace me with a woman?”
I said, “The priestess Doris is a famous teacher. But if you’re concerned, I suppose we could arrange a contest between you and the lady.” I smiled innocently. “To see which of you can recite the most Homer.”
“I won’t be party to such a travesty,” Karinthos said. “Everyone knows women can’t teach.”
“Does this concern you?” Sophroniscus asked Karinthos.
“Of course it does,” Karinthos said. “If people think you withdrew your son from my lessons to send him to a woman, I’ll be a laughingstock. The other fathers would send their boys elsewhere.” No pupils at the school meant no fees for Karinthos. He blanched.
“But didn’t you just say Socrates couldn’t go to your school?” said Sophroniscus.
“I must insist the boy return.”
“I think we’re finished here,” said Sophroniscus. “Son, you have permission to take Socrates with you. Now I must return to my workshop. I have commissions to complete. For Olympia,” he added pointedly, for the benefit of Karinthos. To sculpt for the home of the Sacred Games is a high honor.
Karinthos said, “Very well, Sophroniscus, but when the boy is ready, I insist he return to school. I won’t have my hard work undone by some feebleminded woman.”
“If you insist, Karinthos,” Sophroniscus said. As he passed by me, he whispered, “Well done, son.”
The episode had turned out well for everyone. Except me. Now I was stuck with Socrates for the rest of the investigation.
“Thanks, Nico!” Socrates said the moment Karinthos had stormed out. “Does this mean we’re partners?”
“It means you tag along and don’t say anything,” I said firmly. “Come with me.”
We were halfway down the street-Socrates had to trot to keep up-when two men stepped in front of us. Neither of them smiled, and both wore the leather wrist straps favored by the worst sort of street thug.
“Are you Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus?” one demanded.
I’d been asked that question by men who didn’t smile enough times on past jobs that I knew what I had to do.
“No,” I lied. “Who, me? My name is … er … Markos. I’m a vegetable seller. Would you like to buy a box of quince?”
“But Nico,” Socrates spoke up at once, “quince isn’t a vegetable. It’s a fruit. Quince hangs on its branch, so it must be a fruit, you see-”
“Shut up, Socrates!” I said in desperation.
“It’s him,” the second man said. “The kid called him Nico.”
I said, “Thanks a lot, Socrates.”
Quick as lightning the first man punched me in the diaphragm. I doubled over and gasped for air. The other hit me with a swinging uppercut to the jaw and I went over backward, straight into the open drain. Most of Athens’s byways consist of garbage, with an underlying layer of street. That’s because they build the houses to overhang to get more floor space, and people toss their rubbish straight out. The open drains run down the middle of every path.
I sprawled in a puddle that stank of urine and ancient wash water and rotting food. Something I didn’t want to look at floated beside my head.
I curled up in the filth, expecting them to start kicking me at any moment, hoping they’d leave Socrates alone, but instead they grabbed me by an arm each and hauled me up, faces screwed up in disgust. The vile liquid of the open drain had soaked into my exomis to stain it brown.
“Eww, you stink,” the first man said.
“Well, whose fault is that?” I complained.
“Just following orders,” he said in a friendly tone. “No hard feelings, right?” He punched me in the diaphragm again, just to make sure there were no hard feelings. I doubled but didn’t fall, and gasped for breath.
They relieved me of the knife I kept inside my exomis. Then they patted me down and found the other knife I kept secreted at my back, beneath my belt. Socrates watched from the side, openmouthed at the sudden violence.
“We’re all professionals here,” the first man said to me, and I wondered if he was about to invite me to a conference. “Don’t cause any trouble and we’ll all be fine, right?”
“Let Nico go!” Socrates demanded.
My stomach tightened into a knot. I was suddenly afraid they’d beat Socrates, too.
“Who’s the kid?” the first man asked. He appeared to be the leader.
“My brother. He’s not involved. Let him go, all right?”