Marathon Page 7

  That’s al he knew.

  I looked at him, tried a few more questions, listened to his

  tears – and cut his throat. Sophanes was shocked. I stepped

  back to avoid the flow of blood, and then handed the

  brothelkeeper five more drachmas.

  He nodded to me, as one predator to another.

  The two boys who had been sent to ‘guard’ me were

  spluttering.

  ‘Listen, lads,’ I said. I caught their arms and held them. ‘Al

  he had coming was to be worked to death as a slave. Right?’ I

  looked at both of them. ‘And now the only story that wil ever be

  heard is ours. Hard to cook up a lie if none of your witnesses

  can speak.’

  ‘You . . . kiled him!’ Glaucon got out, after some muttering.

  ‘He tried to kil you,’ I pointed out.

  ‘That was in the heat of battle,’ Sophanes said. ‘By Zeus

  Soter, Plataean, this was murder. It’s different.’

  I shrugged. ‘Not when you’ve kiled as many men as I have,’

  I shrugged. ‘Not when you’ve kiled as many men as I have,’

  I said. ‘Console yourself that he was a foreign metic, probably

  an escaped slave, and a man of no worth whatsoever. He wasn’t

  even brave.’ I wiped my knife on the dead man’s chiton, poured

  a little olive oil from my aryballos to keep it bright, sheathed it

  and headed up the rock-carved steps.

  We were a silent crew as we walked to my murder trial. I

  was pretty sure that my two companions were no longer in the

  grips of hero worship.

  Athenian justice is swift. I arrived a little early, but most of the

  Areopagitica was already on the hil, and the last of the old men

  made their climb just behind me. Aristides was there. He had a

  bruise on one shoulder that he hadn’t had that morning.

  ‘Tried to kil you?’ I said quietly.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And you, I take it?’

  I handed him the tablet with the dagger through it. Heads

  turned al over the summit.

  He was angry. ‘This is not Athens,’ he spat. ‘What are we,

  some court of Medes? Some soft-handed Lydians? Next, men

  wil turn to poison.’ But then he calmed. ‘This wil tel in your

  favour. I’l hand it around. The symbolism is so clear, it’s like an

  augury – the dagger through the law!’

  So I watched the tablet passed from man to man, and the

  muttering must have helped me a little.

  Aristides was calm and forceful when the trial started. Let me

  digress a moment: you’ve noticed that I wandered the city

  without much trouble. I could have run. But of course I didn’t.

  without much trouble. I could have run. But of course I didn’t.

  That’s how it was then – Athens assumed that I would come to

  my trial, and I did.

  In a murder trial, each side gets one speech – a couple of

  hours by a water-clock – first the prosecution, then the defence.

  And the verdict is delivered immediately after the defence

  delivers its argument. We’re much the same in Plataea, although

  it’s years since we had a proper murder trial. Simon, my cousin,

  kiled himself rather than face the tribunal.

  So we al stood in the blazing sun, and Cleitus of the

  Alcmaeonids began his speech. I can’t remember al he said, but

  I know it was damning and at the same time utterly inaccurate.

  ‘I accuse Arimnestos of Plataea, the man who stands before

  you, of the murder of my cousin Nepos. Nepos was murdered

  within the precincts of a shrine – fouly murdered, with impiety –

  unarmed, standing making an oration to the gods.’ Cleitus had a

  good voice.

  I couldn’t speak. But I could rol my eyes. So I did.

  ‘Al of you know of this man – a notorious pirate, a man who

  serves with the vicious cut-throat Miltiades. With Miltiades, he

  sacked Naucratis. With Miltiades, he attacked the Great King’s

  ships, and those of our alies at Ephesus and other places – over

  and over again. It is men like this who bring the just wrath of the

  Great King down on our city.’

  Wel, I couldn’t realy disagree with that, so I smiled genialy.

  ‘Don’t let this man’s reputation as a fighter cloud your vision,

  though, gentlemen. Look at him. This is no Achiles. This is a

  fighter trained in the pits of slavery – a man who has neither

  fighter trained in the pits of slavery – a man who has neither

  arete nor generosity. He is merely a kiler. Is the look on his

  brow more than that of a bestial destroyer? Is he different from a

  boar or a lion that kils the men who tend our crops?

  ‘This is a man bred to slavery, and what he has now, he has

  stolen from better men – first through piracy and then through

  open theft of a farm in Plataea. No man in Plataea dares act

  against him – they fear his wrath. But here in Athens we are

  better men, with a better strength of law.’

  There was more – much more. Two hours of detailed (and

  falacious) vilification. Cleitus knew nothing of me save some

  highly coloured details from Plataea – and it was obvious where

  they came from. Because my cousin Simon, son of Simon who

  hanged himself, was standing a little to the left of Cleitus, with a

  look of joyous hate stamped across his features.

  I locked eyes with him, and gave him some bland

  indifference.

  By the time Cleitus was finished, many of his audience were

  asleep. He had, after al, repeated the charges and the assaults

  on my character fifteen or twenty times. His arrogance showed

  through too plainly. Heraclitus would have taught him better. At

  Ephesus, one of the things we learned was not to annoy a jury –

  nor to bore it.

  On the other hand, none of the men in that jury were my

  friends, and most were bored only because they had made up

  their minds before they put a sandal on the slippery rock of

  justice.

  Slaves came and refiled the water-clock. I leaned over and

  pointed out Simon to Aristides, who looked at him and nodded

  to me.

  Aristides stood up slowly. He walked gracefuly to the

  speaker’s podium and turned to me. Our eyes met for a long

  time.

  Then he turned back to the jurors.

  ‘My friend Arimnestos cannot speak here today as he is a

  foreigner,’ he said. ‘But although his tongue cannot speak, his

  spear has spoken loud and long for Athens – louder and longer

  than any of you Alcmaeonids. If deeds rather than words were

  the weight of a man, if the price of citizenship were measured in

  feats of arms, not barley or oil, he would sit in judgment, and

  none of you would even qualify as thetes.

  Ouch. Powerful rhetoric – but a damned annoying way to

  win over a jury.

  Aristides walked across to Cleitus. ‘You maintain that my

  friend is a slave? Or some sort of penniless foreigner?’

  Cleitus stood. ‘I do.’

  Aristides smiled. ‘And you have received my suit against you

  for the theft of a horse and a woman?’

  ‘I have taken them against the man’s indemnity,’ Cleitus said.

&nb
sp; ‘In other words, you admit yourself that my friend was the

  owner of the horse and the slave.’ Aristides stepped back, just

  like a swordsman who administers the kiling blow and now

  avoids the fountain of blood.

  Cleitus flushed red. ‘He probably stole them!’ he shouted,

  Cleitus flushed red. ‘He probably stole them!’ he shouted,

  but the archon basileus pointed his staff.

  ‘Silence!’ he roared. ‘Your time is done and you speak out

  of turn.’

  Aristides turned to the jurors. ‘My friend is the son of

  Technes, head of the Corvaxae of Plataea. My friend could, if he

  might speak, tel you how his father was murdered – by the

  father of that man standing by Cleitus – and his farm stolen by

  the same man, and how Arimnestos later returned from ten years

  of war – war at the behest of Athens, I might add – to find his

  enemies in possession of his farm. He might speak of how the

  assembly of Plataea voted to punish the usurper – that man’s

  father – and he might speak of what a twisted claim has just been

  made – accusations void of truth. Any man of Plataea would tel

  us, if caled to witness, that my friend is master of a farm that

  provides three hundred measures of grain and oil and wine.’

  Aristides had them listening now.

  ‘But none of this matters. What matters is simple. My friend

  did not kil Cleitus’s useless cousin. In point of fact, Cleitus’s

  case is already void, because he has spoken – and he may not

  speak again – yet he has not troubled to prove that his cousin is

  dead.’

  Cleitus had missed the matter entirely. His head snapped up,

  his mouth worked.

  ‘Realy, cousin – for we are cousins, Cleitus, are we not? –

  you are too young to plead before this august body. You

  needed, first, to prove that your cousin Nepos is dead. Second,

  you needed to demonstrate that my friend was in some way

  you needed to demonstrate that my friend was in some way

  linked to his death, beyond the circumstance that he is from

  Plataea. If you had remembered, you would have maintained that

  your cousin died at the shrine of Leitos on the flanks of

  Cithaeron. But like a young man, you let spite carry you away,

  and you forgot to mention the place of this supposed murder, or

  any other facts relating to it. What you have not told these

  worthy men is that your whole knowledge of this matter comes

  from two panicked slaves who returned to you, claiming that

  their master had been kiled. You have never been to Plataea,

  you have no idea if the claim is accurate, you have acted on the

  word of two treacherous slaves, and in truth, as far as you know,

  at any moment your cousin Nepos may strol into the crowd and

  ask what this is about.’

  Cleitus rose again. ‘He is dead. He was kiled at the shrine

  —’

  The archon rose. ‘Silence this instant, puppy.’

  ‘Listen to me!’ Cleitus spat.

  The archon waved and two gaudily dressed Scythian archers

  took Cleitus by the arms and carried him off the hil.

  Aristides looked around in silence. ‘I claim that my opponent

  has made no case. He has not shown a body. He has not offered

  a witness. There is nothing for me to answer but the slander of a

  traitor’s son. I cal a vote on the evidence presented.’

  Stunned silence greeted him. The water-clock was running

  noisily – it was stil almost ful.

  The archon looked them over. ‘I cannot direct you,’ he said.

  ‘But if you pretend that Cleitus has a case, I’l make you pay.’

  ‘But if you pretend that Cleitus has a case, I’l make you pay.’

  I was acquitted, twenty-seven to fourteen. A carefuly

  arranged vote, as it meant that I could not claim damages from

  Cleitus.

  Several men tried to force through a different vote that would

  have made me stand trial again if more evidence could be

  gathered. They were stil arguing when the sun set and Aristides

  led me off the hil.

  ‘You are the very Achiles of orators,’ I said.

  Aristides shook his head. ‘That was bad. I used arts to win.

  Had I argued the case on its merits, they would have found a

  way to kil you.’ He rubbed his nose. ‘I feel dirty. Perhaps I

  should exile myself. This is not law. This is foolishness.’

  ‘The archon was just.’

  ‘The archon hates the Alcmaeonids as upstarts and posturers.

  He’s no friend of mine, but he’d raise me to Olympus if it would

  hurt the new men. Al I had to do was put Cleitus in a place

  where his arrogance would count against him.’

  ‘What now?’ I asked. ‘I want my horse and my slave girl.’

  Aristides shook his head. ‘Perhaps in the spring. And if you

  stay here, you’l be dead. I don’t have enough wax tablets to

  keep you alive.’

  We walked to his farm and Jocasta served wine. I told her

  the whole of the trial while Glaucon and Sophanes sulked. They

  didn’t love me any more.

  Aristides noted them. He inclined his long chin in their

  direction and raised an eyebrow at me.

  direction and raised an eyebrow at me.

  ‘Hmm,’ I said.

  Jocasta was looking at her husband with her eyes shining.

  ‘Should I invite this pretty foreigner to live in our house, so that I

  can finaly hear what happens at your trials, love?’ she asked. To

  me, she said, ‘He never tels me a word of his speeches.’

  The great man looked down his nose. ‘If I told you my

  speeches, you would only seek to improve them,’ he said. ‘I

  could not bear that.’

  Their eyes met, and I felt a twinge of jealousy – not bodily

  jealousy, like a boy feels when a girl leaves him for another, but

  something in the soul. Those two had something I had never had

  – something calm and deep.

  ‘Why are the boys on edge?’ Aristides asked quietly.

  ‘I kiled some thugs,’ I said. I saw the effect my words had

  on the lady. Kiling was part of life for me. Not for her. ‘Sorry,

  despoina.’ When Aristides shrugged, I clarified why the two

  young men were upset. ‘One I kiled in cold blood.’

  Aristides shuddered in revulsion. ‘How can you do such

  things?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s much like kiling a man in a fight, only quicker,’ I

  retorted. His squeamishness – did I mention that he was a prig?

  – offended me.

  ‘I cannot have you under my roof while you are tainted with

  such a crime,’ Aristides said.

  I al but fel over in shock.

  ‘They attacked us.’ But I could see it on his face. This was

  Athens. I had spent too long in the camp of Miltiades. Men

  Athens. I had spent too long in the camp of Miltiades. Men

  didn’t simply cut other men’s throats here. I had, unwittingly,

  committed a crime – and offended my host and patron.

  I’m no fool. I got to my feet. ‘I understand, my lord. But the

  man – what was before him but death in the mines? And he

  might have been used against us in law.’

  Aristid
es kept his head turned away, as if breathing the same

  air as me would hurt him. ‘A thug – a metic? He could never

  have been used in a trial. And you should know better. Are you

  a god, that you may choose who lives and who dies? You kiled

  him because it was easy.’

  Alas, he was right.

  ‘A god, or one of the fates, might wel say that this man had

  no future but a straight trip to the mines and a few months of

  wretchedness.’ Aristides puled his chlamys over his head in

  disgust. ‘You have no such knowledge. You kiled him for

  convenience. Your own convenience. Now I am beginning to

  doubt my wisdom in defending you.’

  Jocasta was standing as far from me as possible. They were a

  very religious household, and my bloody pragmatism now

  looked to me, as it did to them, like selfish crime.

  I had two choices – the amoral outrage of the pragmatist, or

  admission that I had acted wrongly. Rage rose within me, but

  Heraclitus was there, too.

  ‘You are right,’ I said. I clamped down on my anger. It was

  wrong – ugly, unworthy.

  Aristides raised his head. ‘You mean that?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You have convicted me in the court of my own

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You have convicted me in the court of my own

  mind. I should not have kiled him, though he was of no use, even

  to himself.’ I shuddered. It was so easy to fal back into the

  habits of the pirate.

  ‘Cleanse yourself,’ he said.

  ‘I need my horse and my woman,’ I said. ‘I swore an oath.’

  Aristides shook his head. ‘Cleanse yourself, and perhaps the

  gods wil provide.’

  There were, in those days, a number of temples that offered

  cleansing from the stain of death and impiety. Even the shrine to

  Leitos, in Plataea, although that was open only to soldiers.

  But the principal places of cleansing for crime were Olympia,

  Delphi and Delos. And of the three, Delos was easiest to reach,

  though most distant in stades, I suppose. And the Apolo there

  was the most ready to listen to a common man.

  ‘I wil go to Delos,’ I said.

  ‘You can be in Sounion by morning,’ Aristides said. ‘Have

  you money?’

  I didn’t tel him I stil had twenty drachmas from the dead

  men. ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Gods speed you there,’ Aristides said. He stood by me

  while I roled my blankets and an old bearskin, then folowed me

  out of his gate. ‘Listen, Arimnestos. You may take me for a