The Athenian Murders (3 page)

Heracles Pontor arrived at sunset, for he had decided that he, too, would take part in the
ecphora,
the funeral procession, always held at night. Slowly, ceremonially, he

entered the dark vestibule - damp and cold, the air oily with the scent of unguents - and circled the corpse once, following the winding line of guests. He embraced Daminus and ltys; she was wrapped in a black
peplos
and large-hooded shawl. They did not speak. His embrace was one among many. As he progressed he recognised some of the guests but not others. There was Praxinoe and his son, the beautiful Antisus, said to have been one of Tramachus' closest friends; also Isiphenes and Ephialtes, well-known merchants, there, no doubt, because of Daminus; and - a presence he found most surprising - Menaechmus, the sculptor poet, dressed as carelessly as usual, who broke with protocol by stopping to whisper a few words to Itys. And lastly, as he emerged into the cold damp garden, he thought he saw the sturdy figure of the philosopher Plato waiting to enter with the others. Heracles assumed he had come in memory of his old friendship with Meragrus.

The procession that set off for the cemetery along the Panathenaic Way looked like a giant sinuous creature; the head consisted of, first, the corpse, on a swaying bier carried by four slaves; behind it, the immediate family - Daminus, Itys and Elea - deep in silent grief; then the oboe players, young men in black tunics awaiting the start of the ceremony to begin playing; and lastly, the white peploses of the four weepers. Friends and acquaintances of the family, advancing two by two, made up the body-In the cold, damp evening mist, the cortege headed out of the City through the Dipylon Gate and set off along the Sacred Way, leaving the lights of the houses far behind. The tombstones of the Ceramicus rippled in the torchlight; all around there rose statues of gods and heroes delicately oiled with the night dew, tall steles inscribed and embellished with undulating figures, and urns of solemn outline with ivy snaking over them. The slaves carefully placed the corpse on the funeral pyre. The sinuous notes of the oboes slid through the air; the hired mourners, in formation, tore at their garments while intoning their cold, oscillating chant. Libations were made in honour of the gods of the dead. The guests dispersed to observe the ceremony. Heracles chose to stand beside a huge statue of Perseus; Medusa's decapitated head, which the hero clutched by her mane of vipers, was level with Heracles' face and appeared to be watching him through empty eyes. The chanting concluded, the final words were uttered, and the golden heads of four torches were lowered at the edge of the pyre: the many-headed Fire rose up, writhing, its numerous tongues waving in the cold damp air of the Night.
⁶

The man knocked on the door several times. No one answered, so he tried again. Clouds with many heads began to twist in the dark Athenian sky.

The door was opened at last; a figure appeared, swathed in a long black shroud, with a featureless white face. Confused and intimidated, the man stammered: 'I wish to see Heracles Pontor, known as the Decipherer of Enigmas.'

The figure slipped back into the shadows; still hesitant, the man entered the house. Outside, now and then, thunder boomed.

Heracles Pontor sat at the table in his small room. He had stopped reading and was absorbed in tracing the sinuous path of a large crack that ran from the ceiling half-way down the opposite wall. The door opened gently and Ponsica appeared.

'A guest,' said Heracles, deciphering the graceful, undulating movements of his masked slave's slender, agile-fingered hands. 'A man. Wishes to see me.' Both hands fluttered at once, the ten heads of her fingers conversing in the air. 'Yes, show him in.'

⁶
'Cold and damp', together with 'undulating' and 'sinuous' movement, in all its variants, appear to dominate the eidesis in this chapter. This could easily be a sea image (which would be very characteristic of the Greeks). But what about the recurring 'stickiness'? Let's move on and see. (T's
N.)

The man was tall and thin. He wore a humble woollen cloak upon which the cold, damp night had deposited a layer of its slimy scales. His well-formed head was bald and shiny, and his chin sported a neatly trimmed beard. His eyes were bright, but the weariness of age was apparent in the lines around them. Once Ponsica had left, still silent, the man, who had been watching her in amazement, turned to Heracles. 'Is what they say of you true?'

'And what do they say?'

'That a Decipherer of Enigmas can read the faces of men and the look of things as if they were papyri. That he knows the language of appearances and can translate it. Is that why your slave hides her face behind a blank mask?'

Heracles got up to get a bowl of fruit and a krater of wine. He smiled slightly and said: 'By Zeus, I would not want to deny such a reputation, but my slave covers her face more for my own tranquillity than hers. She was kidnapped by Lydian bandits when she was no more than a baby, and during a night of drunkenness, they amused themselves by burning her face and tearing out her small tongue . . . Please, help yourself to fruit ... It seems one of the bandits took pity on her, or discerned there might be profit to be made, and adopted her. Later he sold her as a slave for domestic work. I bought her in the market two years ago. I like her because she's as silent as a cat and as obedient as a dog, but her ruined features displease me.'

'I understand,' said the man. 'You feel sorry for her ...'

'Oh, no, it's not that,' said Heracles. 'They distract me. My eyes are too often tempted by the complexity of all that they see. For example, just before you arrived, I was engrossed in following the path of that interesting crack on the wall - its course and tributaries, its origin . . . Well, my slave's face is an endless, twisted confusion of cracks, a constant enigma for my tireless gaze, so I decided to have her hide it by making her wear a mask. I like to be surrounded by simple things: the rectangle of a table, the circles of goblets, simple geometric shapes. My work consists in exactly the opposite - deciphering the complicated. Please, make yourself comfortable on the couch ... Do try some of this fresh fruit, especially the sweet figs. I adore figs, don't you? I can also offer you a goblet of undiluted wine.'

The man had listened to Heracles' calm words with growing surprise. He now reclined slowly on the couch. In the light from a small oil lamp on the table, his bald head cast a perfectly round shadow on the wall. The shadow of Heracles' head - a thick cone with a short tuft of hair on top - stretched to the ceiling.

'Thank you. I'll take the couch for now,' said the man.

Heracles shrugged. He pushed aside some scrolls and drew the bowl of fruit towards him. He sat down and took a fig. 'Now, how can I help you?' he asked pleasantly.

Thunder clamoured harshly in the distance. After a pause, the man said: 'I'm not sure, in truth. I've heard that you solve mysteries. I've come to present you with one.'

'Show it to me,' said Heracles.

'What?'

'Show me the mystery. I only solve enigmas that I can see. Is it a text? An object?'

⁷
I have translated 'the head of the fig' literally, although I'm not quite sure what our anonymous author is referring to. He might mean the round fleshy part or, just as easily, the end with the stalk. Or it might simply be a writer's trick to draw attention to the word 'head' which, it seems increasingly likel
y, is the next eidetic word. (T
.'sN.)

Again, the man looked astonished, frowning, mouth open, as before. Meanwhile, Heracles neatly bit off the head of the fig.
⁷

'No, nothing like that,' he said slowly. 'The mystery I've brought you is something

that was, but is no longer. A memory. Or the
idea
of a memory.'

'How can you expect me to solve such a thing?' smiled Heracles. 'I only translate what my eyes can see. I don't go beyond words.'

The man stared at him hard, as if challenging him. 'There are always
ideas
beyond words, even if they're invisible,' he said. 'And they are all that matters.'
⁸
The man bowed his head and the round shadow moved down the wall. 'We, at least, believe in the independent existence of Ideas. But let me introduce myself. My name is Diagoras, from the
deme
of Medonte. I teach philosophy and geometry at the school in the gardens of Academe run by Plato. You may have heard of it... It's known as the "Academy".'

Heracles nodded. 'I have heard of the Academy and I am acquainted with Plato,' he said. 'Although I have to admit that, lately, I haven't seen him often

'I'm not surprised,' said Diagoras. 'He's very busy with the next book in his Dialogue on the ideal government. But it's not him I've come about, but. . . one of my students, Tramachus, son of the widow Itys. The young man killed by wolves a few days ago. Do you know who I mean?'

⁸
It occurs to me that, quite apart from their purpose within the fiction of the dialogue, these last sentences - 'There are
ideas
beyond the words ...' and 'They are all that matters' - could also be a message from the author to emphasise the presence of eidesis. Montalo, as usual, doesn't seem to have noticed anything.
(T's
N.)

In the dim lamplight, Heracles' fleshy face remained expressionless. Ah, so Tramachus attended the Academy, he thought. That's why Plato went to offer Itys his condolences. He nodded, and said: 'I know his family, but I wasn't aware that he was a student at the Academy'

'He was,' said Diagoras. 'And a good one.'

Intertwining the heads of his thick fingers, Heracles said: 'And the mystery you've brought me has to do with Tramachus.'

'Directly,' said the philosopher.

Heracles thought a moment, then waved his hand vaguely. 'Now, tell me about it as best you can, and we'll see.'

Diagoras of Medonte gazed at the pointed head of the flame - a cone rising from the wick - as he reeled off the words: 'I was Tramachus' principal tutor and I was very proud of him. He possessed all the noble qualities that Plato requires of those who aspire to be wise guardians of the city: he was beautiful as only one who has been blessed by the gods can be; he debated intelligently; his questions were always pertinent, his conduct exemplary; his spirit vibrated in harmony with music and his slender body was shaped by exercise in the gymnasium. He was about to come of age and burned with impatience to serve Athens as a soldier. Although it saddened me to think he would soon be leaving the Academy - I held him in great esteem - my heart rejoiced in the knowledge that his soul had learned all that I had to teach and was well prepared for life.'

Diagoras stopped. His gaze remained fixed on the gently undulating flame. He went on wearily: 'But about a month ago, I began to notice something strange happening to him. He seemed preoccupied. He wasn't concentrating during classes. In fact, he would stand well away from his classmates, leaning against the wall furthest from the blackboard, ignoring the forest of arms that rose, like heads on long necks, when I asked a question, as if he were no longer interested in knowledge ... At first I didn't attach too much importance to his behaviour. As you know, at that age, problems are numerous, but they bubble up then subside smoothly and swiftly. But his lack of interest continued, and even worsened. He often missed classes, he didn't go to the gymnasium . . . Some of his classmates, too, noticed he had changed, but didn't know why. Could he be sick? I decided to speak to him ... although I still believed that his problem was trivial . . . possibly amorous in nature . . . you know what I mean . . . it's common at that age . . .' To Heracles' surprise, Diagoras blushed like a young man. He swallowed before continuing. 'One afternoon, in the interval between classes, I found him alone in the gardens, beside the statue of the Sphinx . . .'

Among the trees, the young man was oddly still. He appeared to be staring at the head of the stone figure, the woman with a lion's body and eagle's wings, but his prolonged immobility, so like the statue's, showed that his mind must be far away. The man found him standing with heels together, arms by his sides, head slightly tilted. It was cold in the twilight, but the young man wore only a short, light tunic - similar to the Spartan
chiton
- which flapped in the wind, leaving his arms and pale thighs uncovered. His chestnut curls were tied with a ribbon. He wore beautiful leather sandals. Intrigued, the man came closer. As he did so, the younger man became aware of his presence and looked round. 'Ah, Master Diagoras, it's you.'

He made as if to leave, but the man said: 'Wait, Tramachus. I wanted to speak to you alone.'

The young man stopped, his back to him, white shoulders uncovered, and turned slowly The man, eager to appear affectionate, noticed that the boy's smooth limbs were tense, so he smiled reassuringly. He said: 'Are you not rather lightly dressed? It is a little cold.'