Aristotle Detective: An Aristotle Detective Novel

The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637

© 1978 by Margaret Doody

All rights reserved

Originally published in 1978

University of Chicago Press edition 2014

Printed in the United states of America

18 17 16 15 14           1 2 3 4 5

ISBN-13: 978-0-226-13170-2 (paper)

ISBN-13: 978-0-226-13184-9 (e-book)

DOI: 10.728/chicago/9780226131849.001.0001

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Doody, Margaret Anne, author.

Aristotle detective : an Aristotle detective novel / Margaret Doody.

pages ; cm

ISBN 978-0-226-13170-2 (pbk. : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-226-13184-9 (e-book)     1. Aristotle—Fiction.     2. Greece—History—Macedonian Expansion, 359-323 B.C.—Fiction.     3. Athens (Greece)—Fiction.     4. Murder—Investigation—Fiction.     I. Title.

PR9199.3.D556A89 2014

823’.914–dc23

2013042064

This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992

(Permanence of Paper).

PRAISE FOR THE ARISTOTLE DETECTIVE SERIES

Doody weaves the tapestry of the background beautifully and unobtrusively. And she knows how to sustain suspense.

—Book World

The best detective to come along since we said good-bye to Nero Wolfe and Hercule Poirot.

—Lewiston fournal

[Margaret Doody] not only makes Greece live but turns Aristotle into a passionate, quirky seeker of truth.

—Detroit News

This clever and original detective story set in ancient Athens should suit classicists to a T and enchant all sleuthwatchers . . . Doody brings the Athens of 322 B.C. to life with skill and verve . . .

—Publishers Weekly

. . . well-paced and memorable not only for its marvelous evocation of what it must have been like to sail the Aegean 2,300 years ago but for a lurking sense of menace beneath the surface detail of daily courtesies, comical misadventures, and breathtakingly beautiful descriptions.

—Roderick Beaton

The Aristotle Detective series by Margaret Doody is historically correct without being pedantic, learned but not tedious, equally ironic and attentive to details.

—Mariarosa Mancuso, corriere della sera

This work offers satisfactory detection, a well-proportioned story, nostalgia for lovers of Greece, and special fun for classicists. it is a bonus that it is so well written.

—Barbara Levick, TLS

Why did no one think of this before?

—The Times

THE ARISTOLE DETECTIVE SERIES

Aristotle Detective

Aristotle and Poetic Justice

Aristotle and the Secrets of Life

Poison in Athens

Mysteries of Eleusis

To my sister

MARY ELIZABETH HOWELL-JONES

this book is affectionately dedicated

with the hope that it may please a real classicist

CONTENTS

I. I, Stephanos

II. Murder in Athens

III. Threnodies and Accusations

IV. Aristotle at Home

V. Hearing and Overhearing

VI. Prytaneion to Peiraeus

VII. Taverns and Broken Vessels

VIII. Blood and Insults

IX. Family Matters

X. Puzzles in Writing

XI. Fire and Darkness

XII. Swords and Stones

XIII. The Last Prodikasia

XIV. A Day at the Farm

XV. Journey to Euboia

XVI. Return to Athens

XVII. Aristotle Plans a Journey

XVIII. Peril and Approach of Death

XIX. Thoughts of Death

XX. At Hekate’s Crossroads

XXI. Aristotle Teaches Rhetoric

XXII. The Trial Begins

XXIII. The Areopagos in an Uproar

XXIV. After the Trial

LIST OF CHARACTERS

» Aristotle, son of Nikomakhos: philosopher and head of the Lykeion in Athens, age 53

» Stephanos, son of Nikiarkhos: young man, age 23, now head of his family, former student of Aristotle

» Philemon, son of Lykias: Stephanos’ cousin, age 23, sent into exile at age 19 for manslaughter

» Eudoxia: Stephanos’ aunt, mother of Philemon

» Stephanos’ mother: widowed and given to weeping but not weak

» Theodoros: Stephanos’ younger brother, age 7

» Pythias: Aristotle’s wife

» Boutades: wealthy man of the aristocratic tribe of the Etioboutadai, age 50, a trierarkh and gentleman of consequence

» Polygnotos: nephew of Boutades, wealthy, producer of a play for the Dionysia

» The Sinopean: young slave of Polygnotos

» Eutikleides: stout citizen, neighbor and kin to Boutades

» Telemon: wispy and talkative citizen with a limp

» Kleiophoros: jolly citizen who likes telling the news

» Theosophoros: serious citizen, given to dry remarks

» Arkhimenos: noble citizen of distinguished appearance, another trierarkh and associate of Boutades

» Melissa: beautiful young woman, formerly lived in Thebes

» Nousia: old nurse, attendant on Melissa

» Phokon: Aristotle’s senior male slave

» Autilos: another of Aristotle’s slaves

» Lykias: a toddler

» Mikon: young citizen, one of Stephanos’ former schoolfellows

» Dametas: steward of Stephanos’ farm, family estate

» Tamia: Dametas’ wife, housekeeper at the farm

» Peleios: sailor, once encountered Philemon in Asia Minor

» Sosibios: former soldier in Alexander’s army, becomes an active witness for the prosecution

» Pheidippides: pseudonym adopted by a questionable boatman who also goes by the name of Philander when it is necessary to appear in a law court

» Simonides: potter in the agora with usefully disreputable connections

» Kleophon: fish-seller of Peiraeus, a reluctant witness for the prosecution

Hear me, O Kleio, thou Muse, and support me in the labor of this history. The word I speak is a true word.

I, Stephanos, son of Nikiarkhos, citizen of Athens, do hereby relate the strange and untoward adventures which befell me in the year of the 112th Olympiad. It shall be known how a man of my house was calumniated, how he was delivered, how an evil man was brought to justice through the workings of the mighty gods. Further I shall celebrate the wisdom of my counselor Aristotle, whom I call, in the face of all detractors, one of the best of men and one of the greatest philosophers of the age.

I

I, Stephanos

It was in the month of Boedromion in the waning of the third full moon after the summer solstice that the terrible deed was done that was to have so long and arduous a consequence. The day before it happened I had troubles enough—not that one would say such a thing lest the gods hear and laugh. But so it was. My father, Nikiarkhos, had died the spring before and I, a young man of twenty-two years, was left the head of a family with a mother and a very young brother to care for, as well as a household of servants and slaves. My mother had no brothers, and my father’s brother had died, so I was the governor of the home. With a heart still sore for the loss of a beloved father I had to listen to stewards’ tales of sheep and butter and olives. Instead of studies at the Lykeion and the converse of philosophers, I had accounts to read in the midst of women’s babbling in the courtyard. The house seemed to be supporting all sorts of hangers-on: feeble old ladies in shawls always taking gruel, and their stout slaves always taking cakes and olives. My mother is a soft-hearted soul, and hospitable. Too much sucking in of olives and wine and cakes and gruel by those who blow nothing back is not forever to be encouraged, as Telemakhos found in Ithaka. At the same time, I had no wish to be hard to kinsmen who were in any true need of my assistance. I was always willing that we should receive my father’s brother’s widow, poor Aunt Eudoxia. She was always spoken of so, as poor Eudoxia, not on account of poverty, but because she was always ailing, and because of her great trouble. She was really ill (not grumbling as women do, muttering something is wrong with their insides), yet she could not be persuaded to make her home with us, but insisted on returning to her little house on the outskirts of Athens. It had occurred to me that she feared if she left her residence I might seize the property for my own use. An unjust fear, as the laws of gods and men forbid such wickedness, and I knew as well as she that the property belonged to her only son, Philemon.

This brings me to what Mother called poor Eudoxia’s great sorrow. My mother seldom mentioned the name of Eudoxia’s son, feeling he had brought disgrace upon the family. I could not feel that way about him; I had known Philemon well in youth, almost as a brother, and my affection could not vanish even after Philemon’s trouble. At the age of nineteen he was involved in a tavern brawl (not his first fight of the sort—Philemon always preferred physical to intellectual discourse). One of Philemon’s blows killed a man, and my cousin, without waiting to take leave of us, jumped on the first ship leaving Peiraeus and disappeared into the world. The case was brought to court, but the magistrates were lenient; Philemon was sentenced to exile, on pain of death should he appear again in Athens, but his inheritance was not confiscated. So we could hope an amnesty would someday let him return to his home and his citizenship. We did not know where he was, but heard some confused rumors that he had gone south with the ship, and that after wandering about the southern islands he had become a soldier. This didn’t seem unlikely, and certainly at that time soldiers were wanted, as Alexander of Makedonia was pushing his way into Asia Minor. There would be stirring battles which I knew Philemon would enjoy. I hoped he wouldn’t get killed. I thought of him quite often in the summer after my father’s death, imagining him wandering about the world while I stayed like a stick-in-the-mud at home. I wished he had been around to talk to, but he was not. It was no good saying such things in the hearing of the women, as Aunt Eudoxia would go off into sobs and cry, My poor boy! I shall never see him again. Ai! Ai! Then my mother would weep, and the serving woman and the slave girl would start bawling as best they could for company’s sake.

These things were not all that sapped my heart. My father had been easy with money, and we had less than I had supposed. It had been arranged that I should marry Kharmia, the daughter of respected citizen Kallimakhos, but since Father’s death the respected citizen had drawn back a little on the arrangement. He wanted our family to settle handsome presents on myself and Kharmia at the wedding time, and by midsummer I realized that I would have to sell a vineyard in order to raise the money. It was the smallest and scrattiest of vineyards; I didn’t think we could afford a larger bite into the estate. Near the beginning of Boedromion I thought I had made a sale, but after consideration the buyer decided against it, much to my vexation.

I really wanted to get married, despite having so much of women at home. Mother cannot manage a household well; also, she gets entangled in conversation and weeps easily. My brother was too young for serious talk. Besides, I had become used to the idea of Kallimakhos’ daughter as my wife. I had heard, and not only from her father—the seller who cannot praise his goods is a simpleton—that she was sensible and industrious, and, from the usual women’s gossip, that she was fair to look at, and likely to bear comely children. Not that young people should be over-curious in these matters, but no one wishes to marry a shrewish hunchback, and from a barren woman Aphrodite preserve us. Wife and children of his own—these establish a man and make a citadel about him. My desire for marriage was not merely the longing that can be easily satisfied by a night of sport with an accommodating female in one of the little houses.

On reading what I have set down, I find I have strayed from the subject, which is not the manner of a good rhetorician nor of a trained legal mind. Perhaps I put off the moment that is to come, as I must soon recapture the experience of my first sight of what was vile and fearsome and impious. At least you can now judge why on the night before the memorable third day of the second week of that month I was not able to sleep. I found myself lying awake wondering when, if and how I should marry, and worrying about the wretched vineyard. Eventually I got up and, without bothering to wake a slave, lit a lamp and tried to read. But both head and heart were too dull, so I thought I would take a walk. It was a little before dawn, and soon the city would be stirring.

II

Murder in Athens

I walked through the silent streets, letting the rhythm of my steps ease my thoughts. It was chilly in the wind that springs up just before dawn, and I was glad of my woolen himation over my bare arms and scanty khiton. The birds began to call, and I thought I could hear the gulls’ cry. I thought of Philemon ducking aboard the ship, and as I passed a small shrine of Poseidon I said a prayer for my cousin and promised a sacrifice. There was no knowing where he was—he might be at sea.

The breeze blew more freshly; there was a damp scent of gardens, not quite the smell of summer nor yet of full autumn. Then the east grew gray and the shape of Lykabettos hill became clearly visible. The dawn was coming, a thin saffron spreading slowly along the sky. I could see the street before me and the small shrine of the founder of the Eupatridai in that deme where so many wealthy and noble citizens dwell. The blank street-walls of the great houses were no longer sad-colored, but pale gray. I was still thinking of the sunrise, and trying to recall the most appropriate lines from Homer, when I was startled by a great shriek and cry from the mansion just beyond me.

Before I could get there, the cries had increased in volume, and two men left the house opposite and hastened toward the source of the noise.

The courtyard door was wide open when I came to it, and the two men were hurrying across the yard to the door of the house. A slave was standing in the courtyard, hopping from one foot to another and bellowing, Master’s killed! Master’s killed! his face contorted into a great omega spilling the sound. I passed him, nor did he stop to inquire my name, but continued imbecilically with what he evidently considered his major duty to the house at present and kept on yelling. I followed the other two men, a portly citizen and his house-slave, to the inner door, and I could hear others entering behind me. I didn’t know why I felt I must go in; some unthinking curiosity drove me on. Sokrates, as recorded somewhere by Plato, tells a story of a man who knew there were a number of decapitated bodies, recently executed and piled in a heap, behind a wall. The man endeavored to make himself go past the wall without running behind and peering at what was dreadful, but he could not resist. He looked, crying in disgust to his eyes, There! Feast yourselves on that delicious sight! Certainly there is some lust, not of the eyes but of the baser mind, to look at terrible things, and so it must have been in my case—though, unlike the man in Sokrates’ story, I did not know exactly where I was going, or what I was to see.

I knew soon enough. I followed the other two through the inner house door and then through another door into a room. My first impression was that it was a fairly large room, dimly lit, with five persons in it besides myself—three Athenian citizens and two slaves. No. There were six other persons in the room, five living and one dead. There in the middle of the floor was the owner of the house, in a poor condition for receiving guests. Respected citizen Boutades, of the clan of the Etioboutadai. Boutades, former khoregos, trierarkh, wealthy patrician, was lying supine on the floor, his body twisted below the waist so that both knees were turned sideways. Trierarkh Boutades was fully dressed in a white linen khiton—or, rather, a khiton that had been white but was now streaked in crimson blood as with some atrocious dye. His glazed eyes gazed steadily up at the ceiling, and an arrow was sticking in his throat.

I do not know how long I looked at this sight like one entranced. I felt slightly sick, but not inclined to go away. I might have stayed rooted to the spot, but others coming through the door were shoving me along the wall. I moved cautiously down the wall toward the window. I was aware that there was a table behind me, with an amphora upon it, and even then I was automatically careful of it. More newcomers crowded along the wall by the door. Everyone gave the middle area of the chamber a wide berth.

When I had first looked at Boutades I had felt as if I did so in a long silence, but this could not have been so, for as soon as I started to move I noticed that there was a continuous high-pitched screaming of women from the inner house, and the yell of the slave in the courtyard had not ceased. I realized also that one of the original persons in the room, a dark-haired broad-shouldered man standing at the other side of the body, was speaking passionately.

Who has done this deed? Who has killed my father’s brother? May the vengeance of the gods be upon him!

It was of course Polygnotos, Boutades’ nephew. This man, four years older than I, was already himself something of a public figure in Athens. In his youth he was known as a good gymnast and a fine student. He was now wealthy in his own right, having inherited his father’s estate, and latterly it was rumored that he was hoping for and might expect political office. He had recently distinguished himself by offering to be khoregos for the next Celebration of Dionysos. The sponsor of one of these elaborate productions is famous for a lifetime, should the show be a success, and he will also have proved that he is one of the men of greatest substance in Athens, as the cost of presenting the Great Dionysia is measured not in drakhmai but in talents. As a boy I had admired Polygnotos for his stamina in games and for his fluency in debates. I ought to have known him right away, but the room was dim and Persephone had darkened my eyes for a moment. And strong Polygnotos, disheveled in a khiton hastily drawn on so that one shoulder was unfastened, like a slave’s garment, Polygnotos pale in the dawn light and trembling slightly with grief and rage, did not look quite like the bronzed boy I remembered.

O Zeus, cried Polygnotos, with a rising choking cry, so that the words stifled in his throat, look upon this offense and bring vengeance on those who work harm to me and my house and tribe! Curses on the assassin!

Do you know who did this thing? asked Eutikleides—the stout citizen from the house across the way. I recalled that he was of some distant tribal kin to Boutades. Eutikleides’ flabby cheeks looked sickly in the pale light, but his voice was firm.

How can I know? exclaimed Polygnotos. A villain! A worker in darkness!

Be calm, Polygnotos, said old Telemon. We will have vengeance yet. Telemon, who was standing by Polygnotos’ side, had evidently been one of the first comers. Suitable enough, for he was a fellow who loved the news. He was always called old Telemon though he was only about the age of Boutades, but he was a thin man with wispy hair and a general air of senility. He had a limp too; the children called him old Stumpfoot. Polygnotos paid no heed to his words, but stood muttering broken curses and tearing his hair with one hand.

Yes, Polygnotos, be calm, said Eutikleides. This is no time for women’s work. Tears will have their season, but now tell us what has happened—what you know, that is—so that we may lay the case before the Basileus and see that the arkhon is informed.

I myself know, said Telemon eagerly. I was here first, just after poor Boutades drew his final breath. I heard all from the lips of Polygnotos and I saw—

I would rather hear all first from the lips of Polygnotos himself, said Eutikleides. Boy! addressing the slave, go to the kitchen and ask for bread and wine to—to be prepared for your master. Soon he will leave this place of horror and have some food.

I think Eutikleides had been on the point of ordering wine to be brought to us, a natural enough gesture in ordinary circumstances, and the result of kindly thought for a man suffering like Polygnotos, but a glance at the floor had checked him and changed his speech. It would have been profane to eat or drink in the presence of such a violent death.

Now Eutikleides reached out an arm and touched Polygnotos comfortingly on the shoulder. His words about the wine and this gesture were the first everyday human acts in this room of death, but Polygnotos hitched his shoulder away as a frightened horse may shudder away from a new master. Eutikleides, rebuffed, let his arm fall back. The slave left quickly, opening the door to the next room and admitting a flood of newborn light from the east and the loud cries of the women. Then the door closed, leaving us to relative silence and the slower western beams.

Sirs, said Polygnotos in a more tranquil tone, "you shall hear what happened, as well as my confused thoughts and trembling tongue can utter it. All that I know, which is little enough, I shall tell you. This morning early, just as dawn began to break, I was awakened by a noise. I was not perturbed, for my uncle often works—alas! he worked, I must say—in this room late at night or early in the morning. I sat up and reached for my khiton, when I heard a sound louder than the first—a great crash. I jumped up and ran along the gallery and downstairs, dressing myself hastily as I went. I came into this room and—in the near-darkness by the light of the lamp that is yet guttering on that table—I saw what you see. Boutades lay then exactly as he lies now.

Anguished though I was by his death, and by the unnatural manner of it, I saw at once what must have happened. My poor uncle had been working at that table, facing the window, and in the pale darkness someone had crept near the window and shot him. My uncle had evidently been warned before the fatal shot—perhaps he heard a noise outside, or saw a face. Clearly, he stood up, and the sound that awakened me was doubtless some exclamation, combined with the noise of the stool being pushed back. The murderer must then have shot him instantly, striking him through the throat, and he fell down, there as he lies. His falling was the crash that I heard.

We looked again at Boutades, lying so heavily on the floor, with the large table beyond his feet, between his body and the window. Corpse, table and window were all in a straight line, and the table would have offered no obstacle to an assailant who intended to kill him as he sat there. The stool, pushed away from the table, was still upright. On the table a lamp was flickering in its last drops of oil, and all the paraphernalia of stylus and tablets lay undisturbed.

What did you do then? inquired Eutikleides.

First, of course, I went to my uncle to see if there was life in him, but his spirit had certainly fled before I came through the door.

What a pity he did not have time to name the murderer, said one of the citizens beside me.

It’s little he could have uttered in such a death as that, said Eutikleides shortly. What then, Polygnotos?

As I looked upon my dear uncle’s body, hardly believing what I saw, I thought I heard something move outside the window. I rushed to it and could see a dark shape in the little courtyard outside—the small orchard. It was then that I shrieked to raise the household, and as my cry was still upon the air Telemon here entered with the Sinopean doorkeeper. I shouted that my uncle was murdered, and that the murderer was outside. We all ran from the room and rushed through the courtyard into the enclosed garden. Just as we came through the gate we saw the assassin leap over the wall. I sent the slave to run after him, and Telemon and I returned to my uncle—to this room, I mean. The house was in great uproar, but I shut the women out and stood crying and cursing and wondering what to do. And at this point you, Eutikleides, and all the rest came in to look upon the scene.

That is the way it was, said Telemon. He had held his peace for a surprising length of time, but now his excited voice came quickly out again. I was coming to pay a call upon Boutades, and the slave had let me in and escorted me along the court. Just as we came to the house door I heard Polygnotos’ cry, and hurried in. I saw—what we all see now—and Polygnotos at the window shouting, Stop! Stop! Murder! Boutades is slain! I too hurried to the window—taking care to avoid Boutades, you may be sure. I looked out with Polygnotos and saw a dark figure moving among the trees.

You should have run to the orchard to take him, instead of wasting time staring out, said Eutikleides.

So I did, said Telemon. We all went at once, I and Polygnotos and the slave. Indeed, I was first at the outset, but Polygnotos overtook me at the gate. He runs faster than I can now—my lameness you know. Our Polygnotos is still young and trains his body, though in my youth I was—

Yes. Quite so, said Eutikleides dryly. No younger man would have felt it polite to interrupt Telemon, who, after all, was well-born, but Eutikleides was his contemporary. I think the others felt as I did, that the old hobblefoot should have stood aside. He must have been in Polygnotos’ way in his childish attempt to get to the orchard first. And what could he have done with a stout and desperate murderer had he reached him—Telemon with his little weedy frame? Of all of us present, Telemon seemed least affected by the horror of the occasion, and most like his usual self.

But, said Telemon, without waiting for more prompting,

I did see the villain—jumping over the wall. He was going along the top of it, as a cat or dog will sometimes do, and then leaped off and we could hear him running.

What did he look like? I asked.

Well—it was hard to see in that light, gentlemen, and my eyes are not as good as they were. A dark huddled shape—not very tall, I’d say, and yet not small. Not fat, certainly—but I shouldn’t like to say thin. Well built. Agile. Probably dark-haired.

What was he wearing?

A long cloak, I think.

Difficult wear for climbing walls, I said.

Well, it might have been a short cloak, said Telemon.

Perhaps with a woolen wrap muffling his face. He wasn’t naked. Telemon tittered and stopped abruptly.

Well enough, said Eutikleides. We have heard all we can and must return to the present. We looked away from each other, and back again at the floor. Oddly enough, as we listened to Polygnotos and Telemon, we had been, I cannot say diverted, but somehow eased. Seeing the previous events in the mind’s eye only had taken us away for a time from the corpse, so starkly a corpse, so very dead, to which we now all returned.

The light was quite clear by this time and every detail could be seen—the blood on the floor rapidly drying, the stiff clothes and hair, the glimmer of eye like frozen water. The arrow stood erect from Boutades’ throat and cast a shadow on the far door, like a feather. The shadow of the amorphous body with its one feather looked as if Boutades were trying to become a monstrous bird.

As you must see, what made it all so terrible was the arrow. Boutades had been shot by an arrow from a bow—that was undeniable and unbelievable. Had he been killed by a dagger there might have been as much blood, and Boutades would have been just as dead, but it would all have been much more normal, more comprehensible. Any Athenian citizen might have had sword or dagger—but a bow!

The bow is not a common Athenian weapon. In the hands of Artemis and Apollo it is, like everything about them, divine, unsearchable, perhaps symbolic; in the hands of barbarians it is rude, grotesque, dirty and disgusting. Skythian policemen carry the bow—as slaves of the state with a bad job to do—but otherwise it does not belong to the middle world of common life. One might almost as well expect to meet the Minotaur in Athens as a man shot by an arrow. If all the crimes within the walls for the past hundred years were to be laid before our eyes, there would be murders in plenty, no doubt, by various means—but hardly one killing by bowshot.

So it was no wonder that Polygnotos looked pale and trembled, that Eutikleides was ashen-faced, and that I felt the sweat run down the backs of my knees. The bravest man may still be moved to see a violent death, how much more a death as strange as this one. As I gazed,