DEATH AT SYRACUSA

by Marianne Wilski Strong

It was a voyage of discovery.

Had someone told me it would be, I would scarcely have believed them. I had survived the plague that had devastated Athens three years ago, as had my wife, Selkine, and my son, Diocles. I had seen the people of Athens grumble against Pericles, angry at the failure of his war strategy and forgetting, as ill and besieged people will, the glory he had brought to Athens.

Now Pericles, weakened by the plague, had died. In his place, Cleon now led our democracy. But we had little faith left in it, and though we fought on, our hopes for winning the war against Sparta and her allies had dimmed.

And I? I, Kleides, a Sophist and skeptic who never believed that I knew the final answers to life’s questions, found myself now wondering if life held any more surprises, any more discoveries. I felt tired and, worst of all, uninterested in life.

On the voyage that I had halfheartedly undertaken, my first hint that, indeed, life still held wonders came as my half brother’s ship, carrying myself and wheat from Egypt, sailed into Syracusa’s great bay.

From the deck, the ship’s sail preened white against an impossibly blue sky and hummed in the brisk wind. I stared up at Ortigia, the great high section of the city of Syracusa, with its theater and temples almost as praised in our Greek world as those of Athens itself.

Golden rays flashed from Ortigia, and in spite of myself, I felt a sense of wonder.

“What is it?” I asked Agis, who stood next to me.

“The great shield of Athena, outside the temple to her at the very top of the city. On days like this, the mariners use the shield as a guide into the great harbor.” Agis stared at the light. “Perhaps,” he said, “great Athena will guide us to my uncle before it is too late. Perhaps this is a sign from the goddess.”

I wanted to point out that if the mariners used the sunlight that flashed off the shield as a guide, the phenomenon was not unusual and could hardly be interpreted as a sign. But I bit my tongue. Agis was very worried about his uncle. If my sister-in-law’s young nephew believed in the gods, as I did not, then let him have his comfort.

“We will accept what help is offered from any quarter,” I said, “but first we must depend on our own resources.” I suppose that I had grown rather more cynical about gods and humans during the horrors of the plague that had spawned such fear and loathing in the citizens of Athens, but my years as a Sophist had ingrained reliance on reason too deeply in me to have had it totally washed out. “Tell me again, Agis, and give me every detail you can remember of what the messenger from your uncle said.”

Agis’ forehead folded into several pleats, as it always did when he thought. Socrates claimed parts of Agis’ brain fell into the pleats. True, Agis was not the most logical of thinkers, but I liked him. Possibly, I admit, because he had, even as a young boy, always admired me.

“The messenger said that my uncle begged that I come to Syracusa because his life was in danger. He had a rich treasure that some people would kill to possess.”

“Are you sure the messenger quoted your uncle as saying he had a rich treasure? Earlier you said ‘priceless treasure.’”

Agis nodded. “Yes, yes. Priceless. But what difference is there between rich and priceless?”

“Perhaps a great deal.” I also recalled that earlier Agis had quoted the messenger as saying Agis’ uncle had strongly urged him to come to Syracusa. I did not pursue this change in the quote. Agis, like many a young man, was given to exaggeration.

“Look,” Agis said. “I am sure that there is no more beautiful temple in all Greece.” He pointed across the blue waters of the great bay to the top of the headland, to the city of Ortigia with its fourteen columned temple to Athena perched on the top.

“The temple does look beautiful,” I said. “I doubt that any temple could match the perfect proportions of our Parthenon, but I will withhold judgment until I see this temple close up.”

We watched the merchant ships and triremes moving in and out of the great port and bobbing in the docks cut into the rock. Truly, Syracusa deserved its reputation as a rich and beautiful port. If its navy were not yet as great as that of Athens, it might someday be so.

I could see in the distance the gleam of polished marble on a large complex of structures. “It is the theater I see, isn’t it, Agis? The great Aeschylus wrote and presented some of his plays here. He died here on this island, you know, some six Olympiads ago.”

“Yes,” Agis said. “I know. Syracusa has produced much that is great. Writers, sculptors, architects.” He turned to me. “You have the bit of writing my uncle sent with the messenger?”

“Of course, Agis. It is perhaps the real sign that your uncle feared harm and perhaps very soon. Otherwise, why send a written message as well, one the illiterate messenger could not read?”

“But the message has nothing to do with his fear or anyone intending harm to him.”

“Perhaps not, but I think it must.” I recited the few lines on the precious piece of papyrus sent by Dameus, Agis’ uncle:

Dear Muse
Do this for me.
Keep my words safe.
Let them live.

“I don’t understand why my uncle would write these lines,” Agis said. “What words did he want kept safe? Words about what?”

* * * *

No one answered. A peddler stopped to stare at us. From farther up the street, a woman carrying a water jar turned. She too stared.

Agis stepped inside and cast his eyes round the room. “He isn’t here. Thanks be to Zeus. He must be out and about somewhere.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “Your uncle is not a tidy man, I take it.”

“He is not known for it. But,” Agis fingered a broken jar, “he is generally a bit more orderly than this.”

I walked over to an open chest, half dreading what might be inside. I looked in. Papyrus scrolls, rather carelessly tossed about.

Agis came over. “He or someone must have been searching for something in the chest. These manuscripts he has always kept with great care.”

I closed the lid and looked into a basket by an overturned stool. Shiny black objects glinted. I picked one up. Mesmerized, I carried it to the door to study it better in the light.

It was beautiful. In perfect proportions, an athlete held up a laurel wreath. The sculpture had caught the grace of the young man, arresting the motion as the youth lifted the wreath to crown his head.

Agis came over and took the figure.

“It is quite magnificent,” I said. “Did your uncle collect such figures?”

“He carves them,” Agis said.

I looked at Agis in surprise. “Is this how he makes a living? You said nothing about this.”

Agis ran a finger lovingly over the shiny figure. “My uncle does occasionally take drachmae or other coins for his sculptures, just to keep himself in food and clothing. More often, he gives his sculptures away for nothing or for very little to people who help him find the obsidian and who want an offering for a god but are too poor to pay.”

“A generous man,” I said. “And an intelligent one.” I walked back over to the chest, curious about what scrolls Dameus possessed. I owned several myself and would like to own many more. Selkine and my son would be of great comfort as I grew older, but I admit to also looking forward to quiet time to read.

I opened the chest and lifted out a scroll: a bit of Herodotus’ Histories. I lifted another: the poetry of Pindar. Dameus was a man of good taste. I began to read one of the poems when a shadow blocked the light from the door.

I looked over and saw a tall well built figure silhouetted against the sunlight.

For a moment no one moved. I had the impression that the man was staring at me.

He stepped inside, and I saw his face. A handsome one, strong, with a straight nose and sharp, intelligent eyes. He looked from myself to Agis and back to me. “One of you is Dameus’ nephew, I assume?”

“I am,” Agis said, “and this is a very good friend of mine, Kleides of Athens.”

The man’s eyes sharpened. “Kleides, indeed. I have heard of you. A Sophist, I understand. A friend of Socrates and a teacher of Herodotus’ Histories and Pindar’s poetry.”

“Yes,” I answered, placing the scroll back into the chest.

“I am Aptimus of Syracusa,” he said, watching me closely. His chiton, whose hem boasted a classic key design in rich purple, fluttered in a light breeze. “You were looking for something in that chest?”

“Do you know Dameus?” I asked, ignoring his question.

“I did.” He turned to Agis, who was still holding the obsidian figure. “I must tell you. Your uncle is dead.”

Agis lowered himself onto a stool. “Kleides feared as much.”

“When did he die?” I asked. “And how?”

Aptimus spoke to Agis. “He died two days ago. Someone beat him. A crushing blow to the skull killed him. He was found by another relative, I believe. He was buried yesterday.”

“And were you looking for something here today?” I asked.

Aptimus took a moment to answer. “A reasonable enough question,” he said. “I came looking for nothing. I was at the house of a potter nearby and saw the two of you enter this house.”

“I assume,” I said, “that the assailant is unknown.”

“Correct,” Aptimus said.

“Where is my uncle buried?” Agis asked.

“On the necropolis, to the north. There is a simple stele on the grave, put there, I believe, by the relative. Or so the potter tells me.” He raised his hands. “You know all that I can tell you. I will leave you.” He turned and left.

“Who is the relative?” I asked Agis. “Do you know?”

Agis nodded. “Almeus, the son of my uncle’s sister. My aunt is dead. My uncle befriended Almeus, much good it did him.”

“What is it about Almeus you dislike?”

“He is lazy and thoughtless, except in terms of his own welfare, of course. He did not often visit my uncle, except when he needed some money. What little my uncle had.” Agis looked around. “I wonder what it was he wanted. He must have heard talk of a treasure here.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “Keep your mind clear and open, Agis. We must learn more.”

I turned back to the chest of scrolls. Had I been able I would have lit an oil lamp, closed the door, and lost myself in reading. As it was, I satisfied myself with one scroll. I picked it up and unrolled a bit. The scroll looked fairly new. It was a medium size scroll, the height of three fingers. The papyrus fibers showed little wear. I recognized the poem. This one was by one of the greatest of our Greek poets: Sappho. It was a poem of longing.

She calls out
the many eared night echoes the call
across the silver sea between us.

I hastily rolled the scroll up and dropped it back into the chest. It had hit home, and I stood still, my head down, hurting for Selkine and our child.

“What is it?” Agis asked.

“Nothing.” I braced up. I could assuage my longing a little in the work of finding the murderer. “We must talk to Almeus immediately. Do you know where to find him?”

“In a tavern or with some hetaera. Anyone of the prostitutes of the port could tell us where to find him. But might we visit my uncle’s grave first?”

“Of course, Agis,” I said, ashamed of having lost sight of my friend’s need in my concern over my own.

We left Dameus’ little home and headed for the necropolis.

Perhaps, I thought as we walked, we should have searched the house further. But I suspected that, if indeed Dameus had had some sort of treasure, it was no longer there. Somewhere, someone on this island had it.

We walked through the great square of the new lower city, the wealthy Ortigia at our backs and the great limestone plateau on which the theater sat in front of us.

Agis seemed lost in thought, whether of sorrow, anger, or prayer I could not tell. I concentrated on taking in as much detail of this great city as I could. It helped to keep my mind off Selkine and my son.

We passed fountains and temples, and the east to west road that led to other parts of this island. Syracusa was rich and powerful. I began to suspect that if Syracusa and Athens ever clashed in the war that had now raged off and on for several years between Sparta and Athens, my beloved Athens might well find itself in a battle it could not win. I turned my thoughts from that unhappy prospect. Pericles’ death, the recent plague, and my separation from Selkine were quite enough to sink my spirit. I needed no dwelling on any future disaster.

We climbed up, cutting west, past the great quarries of limestone that provided the stone for the temples of the city, through groves of olive, citrus, and pistachio trees, and at last reached the cemetery.

A field of grave stelae, funeral vases, and monuments lay before us. Agis threw up his hands. “How can we find my uncle’s grave?”

“Let us think, Agis,” I said. “Your uncle was not wealthy. We need not enter the section of the cemetery with the large monuments.”

Agis nodded and we headed to a section of graves marked by simple limestone blocks or simple funeral vases.

We drew close to some newly dug graves where a few people were laying offerings of wine or bits of bread or small votive statues on the graves of loved ones. As we approached, a man in a rough wool robe turned.

“Agis,” he said.

“Mynos,” Agis said, clasping the man’s hand. “Kleides, Mynos is a stone carver. He has worked on some of the great temples of the island.”

Mynos nodded to me, then said to Agis, “You have heard about your uncle’s death.” He turned and looked at the grave in front of him.

“He lies here?” Agis asked.

“He does.”

Agis stepped forward and stood in silence for a few moments.

“Do you know anything of how he was killed?” I asked Mynos.

“Someone beat him, then bashed in his head.”

“The Furies will pursue this murderer.” Agis’ voice was thick with anger and sorrow. “The snake-haired women from Hades will punish him. The gods will see to that.”

I had less confidence than I had had in the past that reasoning and inquiry could find the murderer, but even less confidence that the gods would do so. The plague in Athens that had made Agis turn to the gods had deepened my skepticism about their concern, if they existed at all, with human affairs.

“How do you know how Dameus was murdered?” I asked.

Mynos looked at me sharply. “It is only what I have heard others say.”

“Do you know of any enemies Dameus might have had?”

Mynos shook his head vigorously. “None. He was a kind man.” He swept his hand toward the graves of the poor. “Many of the votive statues here are his handiwork, his art. For a bit of food or clothing, he gave his statues to those who could ill afford other sculptors or potters.”

“And yet,” I said, “he possessed scrolls. Though one can buy scrolls in the agoras of Athens and other cities, they are not cheap: a drachma or more.”

“Dameus willingly traded his sculptures for scrolls,” Mynos said. “He loved the poets of Ionia from past times.” Mynos frowned. “But his murder nearly made me forget. I saw Dameus a few days before his death. He recited a poem to me. He told me he wrote it for you, Agis.”

“Can you remember it?” I asked. “Exactly?”

Mynos paused. He closed his eyes, then began to recite.

From the earth flows
Erato’s beauty.
Her words fill my heart.
I will go there.
There, I will save her words for posterity.

Mynos kept his eyes closed.

“You are sure,” I said. “Those were the words of Dameus’ poem, the exact words? The poem invoked Erato, the muse of poetry?”

“Yes,” Mynos said. “But there was something else. Something he wanted you to have, Agis. He was carving from obsidian a beautiful statue of a god. He and his helpers had found the obsidian, shiny black and red, near the smoking mountain to the west, a beautiful piece that the mountain had belched out.”

“A volcano,” I said. “I have heard of the famous volcano of this island.”

“Did you find such a statue at his house?” Mynos asked.

“No,” Agis said. “I saw no such statue of a god. Did you, Kleides?”

I shook my head. “We must look more carefully. I think, Agis, we should return to the house now.”

Agis turned to the grave once more, then followed me out of the cemetery. We left Mynos staring after us. I kept a good pace.

At Dameus’ house, we searched thoroughly. It took little time. Dameus was an artist and a scholar, not a man given to material goods. We found cups for wine, a jug for water, and amphora. Dameus had used the latter for storing some spices, barley, and olive oil. We found pieces of obsidian, shiny black and red, some carvings of animals and flowers, and the athlete, but no statue of a god.

“Someone killed my uncle for that statue,” Agis said. “My cousin, Almeus.” Agis flung down a piece of obsidian. “My uncle would have given him that statue if he had asked. I would have given it to him. By all the gods, I will avenge my uncle.”

Agis lunged toward the doorway.

I grabbed his arm and pulled him back inside. “By all the gods, if you must invoke gods, Agis, we have seen and felt enough needless death and hatred during the plague. I will find your uncle’s murderer, Agis. I will stay in Syracusa until I do. But we must be sure. We must use the reason and cleverness of an Odysseus, not the anger of an Achilles.”

“Achilles’ anger was justified, as is mine.”

“Your anger, yes; your haste, no. We must not dishonor your uncle’s memory with blood that might be innocent.”

That calmed Agis.

“Let us take with us the things that your uncle valued and go to a tavern and find accommodations. Rest and wine will do us good.”

We gathered some of the obsidian carvings and a few scrolls and headed back toward Ortigia.

We managed to secure a room for ourselves in a decent tavern, and Agis managed to eat and drink. I was happy to see exhaustion clouding his eyes. In our room, he fell asleep almost immediately.

I looked at a few more of the scrolls. There was a bit of Ionian poetry, some poetry of Pindar on Olympic heroes.

I forced myself to put the scrolls aside and quietly left the room. I headed to the port and inquired at some taverns, finally tracking down Almeus.

He sat on a stool, his back leaning against a wall. I noted that the tavern was several steps above that of my friend, Callista, back in Athens.

The bartender poured out more wine into Almeus’ two-handled wine cup, then returned behind the bar.

I bought myself wine, then sat and studied Almeus. It did not require much power of observation to see that Almeus led, as Agis said, a dissolute life. His eyes were as smoky as the island’s famed volcano, his skin as dry and thin and yellow as I’d been told the fields of the island became under the broiling summer sun and dry wind from the African coast. He looked bony beneath his skin, as if he never ate enough to build up flesh and muscle. He seemed the perfect patient for the young doctor, Hippocrates, who was gaining fame with his recommendations for proper eating and good exercise.

I relaxed. If I had to take on Almeus physically, I would win, even without the usual Scythian musclemen I had in Athens to back me up. Although I kept myself fit like any good Athenian man, I had lately taken a few beatings in wrestling, and I’d found I disliked them.

After a while, I got up and strolled over to Almeus. “You’re a Syracusan?” I asked.

Almeus looked at me with disinterest. He nodded.

“I’m a visitor,” I said. “Just arrived on a merchant ship.” It was true. I don’t object to a convincing lie if necessary, sophist that I am, but I’ve hung around with Socrates too long not to respect the truth when possible. “You look like you might know where I could find a lusty hetaera.”

Almeus perked up a little. “I know a few.”

The bartender scoffed.

Almeus seemed not to notice. “I could take you to one, if you make it worth my time.”

“How might I do that?”

Almeus looked at his nearly empty kylix.

I motioned to the bartender.

“We can go down to the port,” Almeus said. “We can have our pick there, if you’ve got drachmae enough to pay for both of us.”

The bartender scoffed again. “Thought you said you’d have only better class hetaerae for a while, Almeus.”

Almeus pulled his kylix to himself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Leave us.”

The bartender shrugged and walked away. I was pleased. For information like that, I’d often had to bribe people.

I kept up my role. “I’m a sailor. I haven’t enough money for anybody too fancy.”

“Damn bartender,” Almeus muttered. “He’s a fool. I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

I shrugged. I could pretty easily guess what he was talking about. “Finish your wine. I haven’t much time.”

Almeus drained his kylix. “Let’s go,” he said, getting up shakily.

We went out and headed down toward the port.

“The bartender called you Almeus. I heard some talk earlier. Aren’t you a relative of the man who was murdered a few days ago?” Not one of my cleverest attempts at soliciting information, but I knew that I didn’t need to be too clever with Almeus.

Almeus’ cloudy eyes cleared just a little. “No.”

“I know you are,” I said. “I happen to know Agis, your cousin.”

Almeus began to take on the expression of a cornered rat. “I meant that it isn’t your business.”

“I’m making it my business.” I grabbed Almeus’ arm. “You took what money you could get from your uncle. What happened this time? Did he refuse? Did you kill him?”

“I didn’t do anything to him. Leave me alone.” Almeus’ eyes flicked in several directions.

For a moment, I thought he was going to take off running in the direction that seemed best.

He pulled his arm away. “I even gave him a burial. I did that.”

“Yes,” I said. “I wondered about that. Even the poorest of burials cost a bit of money. What was it that made you do it? Guilt? I know you were there the day he died.” Of course, I didn’t know that, but Almeus didn’t know that I didn’t know.

“I tell you I didn’t kill him.” Almeus was looking frightened now. “Somebody had already killed him.”

I had what I wanted. I was actually beginning to feel sorry for Almeus. He was so pathetic and easily manipulated. “So he was dead when you got to his place, looking for a handout?”

“Somebody had been there.”

“How do you know?”

“The place was messed up a bit.”

“How?”

Almeus looked wary. “I don’t remember, exactly.”

“Try your best to remember. It might save your sorry skin.”

“A stool was turned over. Jars were scattered around. A chest was opened. And my uncle was lying on the floor. Somebody bashed in his head. I called in the funeral people to take care of the body. That’s all.”

Almeus’ story tallied so far with what I’d seen in Dameus’ house and with what Aptimus had said. But Almeus’ words, “that’s all,” had come too fast and unasked for. He was hiding something.

“You didn’t bother to straighten up the house?”

“Yes. I mean, no. What for?”

“But you looked around. I know you did. Why?”

Almeus’ eyes searched round again.

I held on to his arm.

“I don’t know. Maybe just to see if anybody was still there.”

“You could tell that in a few seconds. The house is one room and not big at that.” I decided on another guess. “You took the statue, the obsidian statue of a god.”

“I didn’t take anything. I...”

I twisted Almeus’ arm.

He winced. “I didn’t take anything,” he squealed.

I twisted his arm a little more.

“I don’t have it. I don’t have it.” Almeus’ face was turning a nice pomegranate red.

“Who does?”

“I tell you I don’t have it. I don’t know.”

I considered breaking one or two of his fingers. True, he was considerably younger than I, but he was thin and a little drunk. I was damn sure I could pound Almeus into the ground, if need be.

However, as I watched his face grow redder, I had a sudden flashback to my Athenian people and the red pustules and feverish skin they suffered in the plague. I had seen enough of human flesh beaten and crushed. I loosened my hold on Almeus.

He scurried away, running pell-mell down the hill.

I didn’t pursue him. He had the statue all right; I was sure of it. But I doubted that he’d killed Dameus. He was far too squeamish for that. He might push someone off a ship’s deck into the sea or shove them over a cliff, but he’d balk at bashing in a head. Almeus was a thief, but not a brutal killer.

I headed back to our lodgings. I had some questions for Agis.

Agis was awake and about to come out in search of me.

In the tavern, we fortified ourselves with barley soup, delicious eel, and excellent Syracusan wine.

I told Agis about my encounter with Almeus. Agis was not as sure as I that Almeus had not killed Dameus. But he agreed to take my counsel and not to dash off to confront Almeus.

“He has the statue,” I said. “I’d bet ten drachmae on that. His burial of Dameus, even at the small cost he put out, was an act spurred by his stealing of the statue.”

“I think you are wrong there, Kleides. Almeus is used to stealing. He wouldn’t feel guilty.”

“I think he has just enough of a superstitious and weak character to fear having stolen from a dead man. He was propitiating the gods by burying the dead.”

“Oh, yes,” Agis said. “I see. So he has the statue, or he has sold it.”

“I do not think he has sold it yet. If he had, he would not have been so worried and so anxious to get away from me. I believe he has hidden the statue somewhere. Perhaps he has already retrieved it. But perhaps not. Tell me, Agis, if you were to hide something valuable on this island, where would you hide it?”

“That’s easy,” Agis said, pushing away his not empty bowl. “The caves.”

“But I understand that the island is full of caves. There are some who believe that the Cyclops who ate some of Odysseus’ men lived in a cave on this island. Just legend, of course.”

Agis, a believer in the truth of Homer’s tales, looked a bit shocked, but said nothing.

“What caves would Almeus go to?” I asked.

“The caves here in Syracusa. In the quarries where the limestone has been removed to build the temples. The quarries are vast and labyrinthian. They are pitted with bridges, pylons, and caverns. The Syracusans use them as jails for prisoners.” Agis caught his breath. “I pity anyone kept in those quarries. No sun. One might as well be in Hades. For as much time back as anyone knows, Syracusans have used the quarries to hide and store things: treasure, food, even themselves when enemies have invaded.”

“Then, it is likely that Almeus hid the statue in the quarries. He is not an original thinker. He is quite likely to do the obvious.” I caught my breath, remembering that Agis had just said that he would have hidden the statue in the caves. I had no desire to hurt poor Agis. He was suffering enough. But he it seemed that he had not noticed my unintentional slur.

“Then the statue is lost to us,” he said. “If Almeus realizes that you believe he stole the statue, he will go to the caves to get it.”

“I doubt that. The sun began to set as soon as I left Almeus. If the caves are as labyrinthian as you say, he will wait until early morning.”

“Of course,” Agis said.

“Then we shall get there at break of dawn.”

“We cannot,” Agis said, looking alarmed. “Tomorrow the theater opens. Sophist though you are, Kleides, it is still everyone’s religious duty to attend the theater, even here in Syracusa, as in Athens. Here the authorities herd to the theater anyone who is in the streets.”

“Then we will go to the theater. I have always wanted to see the great theater of Syracusa where Aeschylus presented some of his plays.”

“But then we may never find my uncle’s statue. Perhaps the gods have willed it so.” Agis shook his head.

“I doubt that the gods have busied themselves with the statue, Agis. And I very much doubt that Almeus will risk going to the caves on a theater day. He needn’t take the chance. He will know that we cannot find the statue by ourselves in such a labyrinth as you described.”

Agis looked gloomy. “My uncle’s murderer must be found, but this delay will not help.”

“Do not despair, Agis. This delay may prove useful. I want to observe what happens at the theater: who Almeus talks to, who approaches him. We may learn something useful. For tonight, let us get sound sleep. We have had a long journey.” I thought of Selkine then and my son. I drank more wine, hoping to dull my ache of longing, but I tossed for some time before sleeping.

* * * *

Syracusa was brilliant with sunshine the next day. The theater proved as wondrous as it was reputed. Carved from the limestone that so permeated the island, it crowned the plateau that rose up opposite the city of Ortigia.

Agis and I climbed up one of the eleven tiers of seats, the tier named after the goddess Athena. I felt a surge of pride for my city whose patron Athena was. We Athenians had invented theater. For a moment I could hear Pericles’ stirring speech to the Athenians in the first year of the war, reminding us all that we fought for Athens because it stood for freedom and the highest achievements of art.

Then I looked out over the Bay of Syracusa, wondrously blue, filled with the ships of the Syracusan navy. I felt a clutch at my heart for Athens, fighting powerful enemies such as Sparta, in danger if hostile cities like Syracusa should support Sparta against us. What then of my city? What then of my beloved Selkine and my son? I had not before truly realized how much my life now centered on Selkine and our child.

Agis tugged at my elbow, and with difficulty, I reigned in my swelling fear.

Agis pointed to the tier across from us. Almeus was climbing the stairs, his head down, his shoulders drooped. He dropped a small pillow onto the limestone seat and perched on it, as if ready to flee the moment he could.

After the dedications to the gods, we watched the first of the plays: a performance of The Aetnean Women, which Aeschylus had mounted years earlier in Syracusa. The play was magnificent. I wondered who in Syracusa had the manuscript. How I would love to see it. I thought about that manuscript, then became aware that Agis was tugging at my sleeve again.

“This is Pylar, Kleides,” he said. “He knew my uncle.”

“It shall fall to you, Agis, to avenge his murder,” Pylar said. “Almeus will do nothing.” Pylar turned to me. “You are Kleides of Athens?” he asked.

I nodded.

Pylar gave a stiff bow. “We are honored. I have heard of your shrewd reasoning skills.” He motioned toward where Almeus sat. “Almeus, on the other hand, has only enough intelligence to beg for a living. He lacks even the cunning of a thief.”

“On the contrary,” Agis said, “we suspect that Almeus may have stolen a statue of my uncle’s.”

“Or perhaps Dameus simply gave the statue to someone,” I said quickly. I had often instructed Agis that it was not wise to let others know what you were thinking.

“I think it very unlikely that Almeus stole the statue and very likely Dameus gave away the statue,” Pylar said. “Dameus preferred his manuscripts. Always hanging about the muses’ caves here, quoting some poet or other. ‘Holy tortoise shell lyre, bearer of golden words.’ Nonsense like that.”

“Are the words from the poet Sappho?” I asked. “The image is quite lovely. I am not familiar with it, though I know her poetry. She was truly inspired by the muses.” I didn’t really believe in nine muses who inspired the human imagination, but it was as good an explanation of the source of human creativity as any.

“Perhaps the words are Sappho’s,” Pylar said. “She was a political exile here on Syracusa a good long time ago. A dreamer, singing of flowers and stars.”

“And love and hate and other human emotions,” I said, trying to hide my annoyance.

Pylar shrugged.

I scrutinized his broad face beneath his thick black hair. His expression was rather self-satisfied with a certain caution about the dark eyes and tight mouth.

A horn sounded for the second play. It was not as good as Aeschylus’ had been, though I do admit a prejudice for the Athenian playwright. By the time the third play, a comedy, was ending, my mind was teeming with bits and pieces of information that were coalescing into a narrative of how the murder might have occurred and why. All the while, I kept a close eye on both Almeus and Pylar.

As the closing rituals to the gods were winding down, I grabbed Agis’ arm, pulling him from his religious trance. “Be prepared to move quickly,” I said. “I want to see where Almeus goes.”

Almeus had already begun to edge his way to the end of the row in which he’d been sitting. I had to keep a little distance behind him, and chances were quite good that I’d lose him in the fifteen thousand or so people the great theater held. But that didn’t matter. I figured Agis had guessed right about where Almeus had hidden the sculpture, and anyway, Almeus was not the key figure. The important figure was whoever followed him, beside Agis and myself.

We elbowed our way out of the theater, ignoring the wishes that Zeus’ lightning bolts hit us. “Lead us,” I said to Agis, “to the caves, but keep in the shadows of the cliffs and trees.”

Agis obeyed.

We followed a road out of the sacred area of the theater, walking between limestone walls. Crowded between the walls, we lost sight of Almeus, as I had known we would. Slowly the crowds cut off in different directions, some down toward the port and Ortigia, others to the populated areas below the theater.

Agis led the way down twisting paths to the caves south of the great plateau. We plunged deeper into the gray of the great limestone cliffs whose upper parts were still lit golden by the setting sun. The smell of the pine forest to the north drifted down to us. We could hear the laughter of people heading to their homes or to taverns.

“There,” Agis said, pointing. “There are some of the main caves.”

I could see the yawning mouths of several caves, black holes in the white limestone. I looked up and around.

“Is there a path up to that area?” I pointed to a grove of trees perched on top of a cliff commanding a view of the caves.

“Yes,” Agis said, “but that section is sacred and dangerous, said to be a place of the gods. Few people go up there.”

“Then it’s perfect,” I said. “Take me.”

Agis hesitated.

“We are on a mission the gods would approve,” I said. “Lead us up. Now.”

Agis obeyed.

We picked our way through brush strewn with rocks. I could see that few people came this way.

On top of the cliff, I turned, flattened myself to the ground, and peered over. I had a clear view of the caves below.

Agis joined me, though he kept back a little.

We watched.

“Perhaps Almeus has not come,” Agis whispered. “Or perhaps he has come and gone.”

In the groves below, here and there, walkers began to lift as dusk began to fill the groves.

We waited.

A bird, no doubt on its way home to its nest, flew by us in a flutter of wings.

“Look,” I said, “just where that tall olive tree juts out.”

A lone figure was heading steadily down toward the caves. As he entered the path at the bottom of the cliffs, two men with torches passed. The flickering light danced off the lone figure and I recognized the thick hair and broad face of Pylar.

Pylar stepped to the side of the path into the shadows of the olive trees.

“Where is he?” Agis whispered. “I can’t see him. Can you?”

“No, but he must be heading to the mouth of one of the caves below. If Almeus negotiates for every drachma he can get for the statue, we’ll have time to catch one or both of them as they emerge. We must start down now.”

I rose, then dropped back down to my knees. “What in the name of Zeus?” I looked about wildly.

Sounds of scuffling, grunts, and then a groan seemed to come out of nowhere and fill the air. The sounds were clear as if very near us. But I could detect no one.

I looked at Agis. He was stiff, as if he’d frozen in his tracks. “The gods,” he whispered. “The gods. We should not be here.”

I looked around again, half expecting to see Hermes descending upon us or Artemis aiming a deadly arrow at us. Then I remembered that I was a sophist and didn’t believe in the gods. I swallowed hard, choking down the urge to get away from this place of strange noises that seemed to have no detectable source. I would have grabbed Agis’ arm just for human comfort, but I didn’t want him to know that my hands were shaking just a bit.

Another groan arose as if Hades were rising from the underworld.

I dropped down and lay flat, pressing my ear to the ground.

“Zeus and all the gods,” Agis said, kneeling down by me. “Have you been stricken dead, Kleides?”

I didn’t answer.

“Are you alive, Kleides?” Agis said, a bit more shrillly.

I was tempted to say no, but Agis didn’t need any more surprises. “Of course I’m alive. I understand now. We must get down to the cave.”

I leapt up and began down the path. I didn’t have to urge Agis. I suspected that he was more than glad to leave the sacred spot.

A shadow, a tall dark shape just darker than the gathering gloom, disappeared into some trees. I fought the urge to follow the familiar looking shadow. We had to get to the cave.

We pressed on, my sandals occasionally skidding on loose rocks and snapping twigs from olive trees. I thanked Selkine for keeping me clad in solid sandals instead of the shabby ones I’d worn before our marriage. My feet would have protested in fury by now.

At the bottom of the cliffs, I glanced up to where we had watched from above. I dropped my eyes directly below and headed to that spot.

A figure flew from the dark mouth of a cave. It was Pylar. He ran across the grove, his robe flying out behind him, as if the furies of hell were pursuing him.

“Go into that cave,” I yelled at Agis, pointing to the yawning mouth ahead. “Find Almeus.”

I scrambled over some olive tree branches in pursuit of Pylar.

It took me only a minute to realize that I had made a mistake. I could not catch Pylar. I should have gone into the cave and sent Agis, with his younger legs and lungs, after Pylar.

I turned and headed back and into the cave. It was quite dark. Only a very dim light, the last rays of a setting sun penetrated a little way inside. I stopped, blinked, and strained my eyes.

I made out a hunched shape about three feet high.

“Agis?” I said.

The hunch moved. “Yes, Kleides. I’ve found him. I think he’s dead.”

I moved to Agis.

Almeus lay on the cave floor. I knelt and touched his head. I drew my hand away and knew the slippery liquid was blood.

“Pylar,” Agis said. “He must have killed Almeus and taken the statue.”

I looked up to the ceiling of the cave. Just at the top, I could see an oval, less black than the rest of the top of the cave. I took the chance.

“Pylar does not have the treasure,” I said, lifting my head up. “Syracusa has many treasures and many caves. The gods know that. The muses know that. And Dameus knew that. From the fountain of Syracusa have flown many treasures and near the fountain, tomorrow, we will find the treasure Dameus hid.”

Agis looked at me as if I had gone mad. “You mean the statue was not here?”

“I think not. We must get to the authorities to have Almeus’ body removed.”

We left the cave.

We reported the murder to the Syracusan authorities and had the body removed and prepared for burial early the next morning, then retired to our room at the tavern.

There, Agis dropped down to one of the mats and put his head in his hands. “I do not understand,” he said. “I do not understand. My uncle and now my cousin. He was my cousin, no matter how unworthy. And he is dead too.” He looked up at me. “Was it not Pylar who killed him? Or was it the gods, punishing him for his stealing of a statue, just as Athena once punished the Greeks for stealing her statue from Troy? I fear it was the gods. The cave is their sacred place where they listen to the secrets and plots of humans.”

“It was not the gods who listened, Agis,” I said. “We heard sounds from the cave and others could hear them too.”

Agis looked at me. “You do not believe the cave is a sacred place?”

“Perhaps men think so. I think the cave’s shape carries sounds upwards to some small opening. We listened and heard Almeus’ last sounds. If anyone was listening to what I said inside the cave, we shall know tomorrow. Sleep, Agis, sleep now.”

Agis fell back on his mat in utter exhaustion.

I lay down and thought of Selkine. I thought of Sappho’s poems of love, how she felt the sight of a loved one to be more beautiful than all the hoplites, all the soldiers of a country in gleaming armor. I understood her poem now. I missed Selkine, her beauty, her touch, her intelligence, her understanding of my needs. I missed her more than Athens itself. And I remembered the message Dameus had sent to Agis: “Keep my words safe.” The real treasures of Athens and of Syracusa were the words of our poets: of Aeschylus, of Sophocles, of Sappho. I remembered the poem Mynos had quoted: “From the earth flows Erato’s beauty.” It was another message from Dameus on where he had hidden the real treasure.

I waited until Agis was deep in sleep, then rose and left the tavern. I made my way slowly in the dark to the caves near the theater. I entered one, found the treasure I sought, and returned to the tavern. Later I left the tavern again and deposited the treasure in what I hoped was a safe place.

* * * *

The next morning we woke early and headed to the necropolis. Almeus’ funeral was simple. Few regretted his death, but Agis and I did. We’d seen far too many people in Athens die a horrible death by the plague to ever take anyone’s death lightly again. The funeral over, we headed to the theater. I explained to Agis what I had found the night before.

We walked purposefully, slipping between buildings, cutting through groves, as if anxious that no one see us or perceive our route. I was quite sure, of course, that we were being followed.

As we reached the top of the plain, I sent Agis off toward the theater, gesturing toward some of the theater guards. I gave him instructions as to where I wanted him to return with the guards and when. I hoped I had the timing right.

I walked along the gray limestone road that led from the theater to a series of caves used as tombs by the Syracusans.

I stopped at the largest of the caves, a grotto in the middle of which flowed a cascade of water, fed by an aqueduct from the river.

The grotto contained statues dedicated to the nine muses, among them the muse of lyric poetry, Erato. In the poem Mynos had recited, Agis’ uncle had told us where to find his treasure. I had at first been so occupied with my own loneliness, away from Selkine, that I had missed his meaning, even when I had realized at his small house how important poetry and manuscripts had been to him.

I entered the cave. Water cascaded from a small cavern seven or so footlengths above the floor of the cave, splashing over stones and into a basin, creating a moist coolness of refuge from the merciless Syracusan sun. A home of divine muses, indeed.

But my back tensed with the expectation of an attack. I had to be ready, or rather, I hoped that Agis would be ready.

I moved into the cool center of the cave, regretting that my sense of hearing was of no use in the presence of the cascade.

I knelt and reached into a crevice as if searching for something.

“I know that you removed the manuscript, Kleides,” Aptimus said behind me.

I stood up and swung round ready for an assault. But Aptimus was far too intelligent and fastidious for that.

He stood watching me, his handsome face stern, undisturbed, his dark brown eyes lit with assurance. “You are clever, Kleides, of course. My men reported that you took the manuscript back to the tavern with you. They are not clever and left, assuming you would keep it with you for the night. I assume you haven’t. I want the manuscript.”

Two men, rough and rather stupid looking, entered the cave.

“These men,” Aptimus said, “will persuade you to tell me where the manuscript is. And do not expect help from Agis anytime soon. He is being delayed by two of my servants.”

I had been too clever for my own good. Realizing the murderer of Almeus was Aptimus, whose shadowy figure I had seen leaving the cave, I had uttered my words about treasures and the fountains to trap Aptimus in the cave. But he had trapped me.

I stepped back. The rough-hewn limestone wall scraped against my back. I thought of Selkine. And my son. And the child Selkine was carrying, a child I might never see. I had spent most of my life alone, pursuing my studies, debating with Socrates, voyaging with Pericles. I had been enamored of Aspasia, Pericles’ wife, then I married my mistress Selkine, appreciating her beauty and intelligence. I had had a rich life, but only now did I know that Selkine had completed me, challenged me, loved me, understood me. Here, in this cave in Syracusa, I knew how vital she was to me.

The two men came toward me.

Desperate, I moved to my left, sliding along the wall, pressing into it, as if it might mercifully take me into itself and save me.

I gasped when I felt the water hit my shoulder, then my head, sliding down my face in a sheet of cold crystal. It shocked me out of my helpless fear.

I turned and plunged into the cascade, reaching for the crevices and steps the water had been carving into the limestone.

I scrambled like a crab pursued by a predatory bird, ignoring the cold and the stone that cut into my hands. I managed to pull myself up to the top of the cascade and turn round.

It was only a matter of a very short time before Aptimus’ men would pull me out of my shelter, but at least I could kick at them, a crab swinging a claw at a predator.

I kicked out, striking one of the men in the face.

He cursed.

The other reached for my leg. My hand found a loose rock at the side of the cascade and I hurled it into my attacker’s face.

I kicked my legs wildly, hoping to land as many blows as I could.

Aptimus cursed. “Swine,” he yelled. “Pull him down.”

One of the men managed to grab my leg. He yanked and I flew down from the cascade. We both fell onto the floor of the cave, flailing about in the water.

I felt myself yanked up by the hair. The second man had me. He held me round my chest, squeezing the breath from me.

I was about to pass out when I heard Agis’ voice. “Kleides,” he yelled.

The brute let me go and I fell back into the water like some fish too old and scrawny to be worth the eating.

* * * *

Back at Dameus’ humble house, Agis dabbed the scratches on my arms and legs with myrrh and olive oil. I would have preferred Selkine’s touch, but the attention felt very good anyway. Pylar stood behind Agis.

Aptimus, Agis explained, had seen the five men, including Pylar, approaching, so he fled, abandoning his two henchmen. No doubt, Aptimus was already on board one of his ships and on his way to Corinth or some other city.

Pylar was mumbling contrite words, hoping that Agis would forgive his attempt to get Dameus’ statue. Shaken by Almeus’ murder at Aptimus’ hands, Pylar had retrieved the statue which Aptimus had hidden in the cave of sounds and sought out Agis to return it to him.

“Pylar saved us both,” Agis told me. “Had he not followed us and seen Aptimus’ men bullying me and sought help, we would both be dead. I’ve no doubt.”

“I am sorry that Almeus has been killed. It is entirely my fault. I tried, Kleides, to divert your attention from Almeus’ theft. And I saw Aptimus enter the cave where I was to meet Almeus. I heard Almeus’ cries, but I fled, coward that I am.” He wrung his hands. “It is always wrong to steal a statue of a god. The gods have punished Almeus, myself, and even Aptimus for our greed for this beautiful statue.”

We all looked at the statue that Pylar had set on a stool, a beautifully carved obsidian statue of Apollo playing his lyre.

“Aptimus followed you to the cave and killed Almeus. But it wasn’t the statue Aptimus wanted,” I said. “He was after a manuscript, a manuscript he thought Almeus had, once he realized my interest in that poor soul. I should have known what the real treasure was that first day we entered Dameus’ house, Agis. You yourself told me that your uncle gave his statues away for little or nothing. He did not think of them as treasures. Then, Aptimus, you recall, Agis, came in. He had no real reason to do so. I could see that he was a man of wealth and intelligence who knew our histories and literature. He mentioned both Herodotus and Pindar, both of whose works I had just seen in Dameus’ collection of scrolls. I should have suspected then that he’d come in to see if we would find what he had killed Dameus for: a manuscript of Sappho’s poetry.”

I rose, went to Dameus’ chest of manuscripts, and drew one out, the one I had retrieved from the cave and replaced in the chest. The manuscript was of goatskin.

“The Ionians used goatskin when papyrus was not available,” I explained. “Sappho was, of course, Ionian and was exiled to Syracusa over political matters involving her family. I suspect that Dameus found the manuscript hidden somewhere as he roamed the island in search of obsidian and that someone, perhaps the men who helped him, talked of the find without knowing its value. Aptimus would have guessed. When we were first at your uncle’s home, Agis, Aptimus seemed rather unduly interested in the manuscripts I was examining. But it wasn’t until Pylar quoted a Sappho poem I didn’t know at all that it occurred to me that your uncle would see as a real treasure not the statues he gave away freely but the manuscripts he treasured. He had hidden the one Aptimus was after in the cave of the muses. Appropriately enough.”

“But why didn’t he just give it to the Syracusan library?”

“With Aptimus so prominent a person here and, as I began to suspect, a collector of manuscripts? Dameus knew better. He must have known that Aptimus, as any collector, would covet a manuscript of the great Sappho.”

I unrolled the right side of the manuscript. The manuscript writing itself was exquisite: there were some word divisions, rare in the sixth century, and all capitals, and even, here and there, some indication of line beginnings. A rare and wonderful manuscript.

I read the first poem:

I asked the gods
make the night
twice as long for us.

Then I read another:

I would not trade
all of Croesus’ kingdom
for Cleis, my beautiful daughter.

How much Sappho knew of love and longing. Perhaps, I thought, I had a daughter now. Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to sail away to Athens, to Selkine and to my children.

Copyright © Marianne Wilski Strong