They bundled us into the back of a cart, covered us with something that smelled like canvas, and drove out of a gate and through the streets for what seemed ages, before the cart stopped and I was rolled without warning into a ditch. At least it was warm earth and not sewage.
Then a body fell from the sky and dropped straight on me. Socrates went “Oof!” in my ear. He’d landed right on top of me. With no warning to brace myself, I thought my bones had broken.
“You can take the hood off now.”
I did. Socrates struggled out of his. Our two friends with the wrist bands were still with us.
“Where are we?”
They pointed. There was the front door of my father’s house.
“Be seeing you.”
The delivery to my father’s home wasn’t a courtesy. They were delivering a message.
Socrates managed to stay silent for five steps. A new record.
“Nico, do you really get to do stuff like that every day?” he said. “Like getting kidnapped and threatened? That was fun.”
I ignored Socrates and walked around the back of our house. Socrates trotted along behind. I skirted the workshop where our father was chiseling-I could hear his mallet strikes-and stopped at the first of the water buckets that our slaves were instructed to keep filled from the public fountain. I dropped my clothing on the ground where the slaves would find it for washing, then poured a bucket of water over my naked body. The grime and sludge of the street sewer flowed away.
Next I picked up another bucket and without warning threw it over Socrates.
“What did you do that for?” Socrates spluttered.
“We’re going to visit quality. You need to be clean. Don’t worry, Socrates, you can drip-dry while we walk.”
I walked through the courtyard, stopping only to put on my last remaining clean clothing, then out the front door. Socrates hurried to catch up.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“Where we were going before I was interrupted. To see Callias.”
I’d known before that I needed to see Callias, but now I really needed to see him.
I had dealt with Callias on several occasions in the past. I had an idea that he rather liked me, or at least, he had helped me and asked nothing in return. What’s more, Callias was quite possibly the most fervent democrat in Athens. Even more so than Pericles; even more so than me. It was a paradox; you’d think such a wealthy man would be against the power of the people, but his name was the gold standard for those who supported self-government. This was why I needed to speak with him: a man old enough to remember the days of the tyrant, who was well disposed toward me and at the center of things. Callias was my route to the past.
I arrived at his house at the same time as he did. Callias looked utterly exhausted. I was about to knock on his door when I saw him. He trudged up the road in a dirty chiton, with ten slaves in tow leading a chain of mule carts to which cases had been tied.
He looked at me in surprise when he saw me on his doorstep. “Nicolaos! Chaire Nicolaos.”
“Hail Callias,” I said in return. “Are you all right?” I was genuinely concerned for the old man. He was dusty, bent over, and noticeably out of breath.
“You see me returned from Sparta this very moment. I’ve been on a mission for Athens.”
Not only was Callias our wealthiest citizen, he was also our premier diplomat and the proxenos-which is to say, the local representative-for Sparta, our rival for power within Hellas. Whatever it was he’d been there for, he clearly didn’t want to speak about it, for he changed the subject.
“You wish to see me?” he said.
“I came to ask you for advice,” I said. “But I can see this is not the time. I’ll come back another day.”
“What’s your problem? Has someone died?” He said it with a tired smile. Clearly he thought he’d made a joke.
“You mean you haven’t heard?” I said. But of course he hadn’t. Callias had been in Sparta. “The skeleton of Hippias the Tyrant has been discovered. Within Attica. I’m looking for some background, Callias, and I hope you might be able to tell me about Harmodius and Aristogeiton. And have you ever heard of someone named Leana?”
Callias fainted dead away.
His slaves leapt to catch him before he fell. I lurched forward to grab his arms, and Socrates, being the shortest, got underneath him. Together we carried Callias through to his own courtyard and onto the nearest lounge. Slaves brought water in expensive coolers, and this we splashed on his face until the color returned to his cheeks and Callias came to.
“No, that’s not possible,” was the first thing he said.
Callias ordered the slaves to help him up. He asked-no, he demanded-that I wait, despite my protestations that he was obviously unwell. He ordered slaves to install me in the kitchen courtyard and begged a moment to wash and recover; he’d been on the road five days, and this was the reason he advanced for his “weakness.” Not an excuse, mind you, but a reason.
“I’m not as young as I used to be,” he said sadly. “I remember when I could march that route in three days. Now, I must have slaves to help me up the hills, and a mule train for my comforts. Old age is a terrible thing, Nicolaos. But it’s no excuse. Give me a moment and I shall be with you.”
I begged him to take as long as he needed, or longer even. He’d ordered that we be served one of the best wines in Hellas-it was imported from Lampsacus, a city across the sea in the land of Ionia; there was no hope that Socrates would appreciate it, so I drank his share-and sat us in the shade in the most beautiful garden in Athens. One of my father’s own works was on display on the land beyond, and I was happy to sip fine wine while I contemplated it.
When Callias returned, clean, refreshed, and looking much brighter, he lay back on the dining couch beside me with a cup of wine of his own. I explained what had happened while a slave massaged his sore calves. He was astonished.
His first comment was, “Those poor girls. Certainly I must do everything I can to help.” Callias had three daughters himself. He had famously asked each daughter, as she came of age, who she wanted for a husband, and then offered the father a dowry so large that no sane man could have turned it down. It was a complete reversal of the usual system and had been the talk of the town. Callias was a man who valued his womenfolk.
I said, “Did anyone have a motive to kill Hippias?”
“Not more than about ten thousand men,” Callias said. “Nicolaos, the whole point of the battle at Marathon was to keep Hippias out of Athens. Don’t you think any one of us would have gladly murdered the bastard to save us all that trouble? The man who got him would be a hero.”
I said, “This is what puzzles me. Legally, it’s not even a murder, is it? Anyone could kill him and not only get away with it, but be praised. That’s why I had a line of volunteers outside my house all wanting to confess. Why would anyone cover up such a killing?”
Callias scratched his head. “That’s a very good question. I can’t explain it.”
There was only one possibility that I could see. I said, “What if whoever killed Hippias wasn’t supposed to? What if his killer wasn’t one of us, but someone on his own side?”
“That might make sense,” Callias said.
“Which means his killer must have been part of the conspiracy to return him.”
Callias said, “It’s no secret that there were Athenians ready to aid Hippias and the Persians. In fact, after the battle someone on the mountain behind us flashed a signal to the enemy. We all saw it.”
“So I’ve heard.” I told Callias of the strange encounter with the man in the helmet, and his odd talk of traitors and a signal. I finished with the words, “Do you have any idea who this strange man is?”
Callias rubbed his chin. “There were many who fought at Marathon. I’ll think upon it. Someone whose brother died in the fighting-you said he mentioned it-and a patriot-you said he’s determined to find the men who conspired with Hippias, the ones who sent the signal.”