Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 50, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2005

The awarding of the prizes went on, but I was not surprised to see Pericles send two men into the skene. Nor was I surprised when, sometime later, one of the men made his way up the wooden seats and whispered to me that when the ceremony was over Pericles wanted to talk with me.

I waited until most of the audience had filed out of the theatre, some talking of Sophocles’ victory, some of the criticism of the old warrior code in his play, and some of Nicias’ absence. Not a few people kept on eye on me as I made my way toward the skene. Some of them knew that I was in Pericles’ small circle of trusted friends and that I had previously helped with some homicides.

Inside the skene, Pericles and two of the city magistrates who had charge of organizing this year’s festival of Dionysus stood talking quietly.

“Kleides,” Pericles said as I approached, “Nicias has been murdered. I need your help. You must discover who did this. It is imperative.”

I frowned. “Of course, I’ll do what I can. But what is the urgency? When and if the perpetrator is known, Nicias’ relatives can bring the charges to the homicide court.” That was our Athenian procedure. Pericles usually asked me to investigate only if the murder posed some danger to the democracy. Aspasia, of course, once asked me to solve a murder because of danger to Pericles himself.

Pericles turned to the magistrates. “Perhaps you would go out and relieve the Scythians who are guarding the body at the foot of the Acropolis. I will explain to Kleides what we have found and then send him out to see.”

The magistrates looked at each other, apparently as puzzled by Pericles’ actions as I was. But they obeyed, and left by one of the side entrances.

Pericles held his chin in his hand and looked as thoughtful as he did when he was about to address our assembly to persuade them to vote for a policy he favored. He usually got his way. We all knew that much of the glory of our city was due to his wisdom in making Athens a place where art, philosophy, and literature thrived.

I waited. He seemed to be struggling with a decision.

Finally he looked at me directly, his dark, intelligent eyes brooding beneath his high, broad forehead. “I do not hesitate because I do not trust you with this information, Kleides. I know your discretion and your fairness. I hesitate because what I need to tell you is not easy for me to say.”

This was most unusual. Pericles was known as “The Olympian,” not only for his intelligence and his aloofness from the more garrulous and dionysiac social life of the city, but for his ease and beauty of expression. I waited.

“Kleides, last night Sophocles spent part of the evening with Aspasia and myself. An hour or two after dusk, he said that he wanted to go to the theatre for some scrolls he had left at the skene. He came to and left from my house by himself.”

“So,” I said, “he has no witnesses to swear to where he was last night or when. I take it that Nicias was killed here in the theatre.”

“Indeed, he was.” Pericles pointed to a dark stain on the floor. It looked newer than the other myriad stains from paint, slain animals, the gods only knew what. The new stain spread toward one of the side entrances as if what or whoever had bled had been pulled along toward the door.

“Were more people than you and Aspasia at your house to hear Sophocles announce that he was coming to the theatre?” I asked.

“Yes. One or two of those people are not known for holding their tongues in check. So this murder must be solved.”

I nodded. “And were there some at your house who would bite their tongues rather than implicate Sophocles?”

Pericles raised his thick eyebrows.

“Phidias,” I said. “He let slip that he was out late last night and saw Nicias going to the theatre. He dissembled when I asked if he saw only Nicias. It was quite easy to see that he was protecting someone.”

Pericles shook his head. “Phidias is a supreme artist. But his mastery of clever rhetoric is, ah, incomplete, let us say. But Sophocles must be innocent. By all the gods on Olympus, what reason would he have for killing Nicias?”

“I’m afraid there might be one. Nicias’ relatives, at least, might well devise one if they hear gossip. Yesterday in the agora, Nicias implied that Sophocles might try to influence some of the judges. Nicias took no pains to speak low. He could easily have been overheard. If he were, well then word will fly round Athens in very little time.”

Pericles pushed back on his head the helmet he wore in public, releasing some graying curls round his temples. He was aging. I wondered if Athens’ great glory could survive without him. “Nicias’ charges are absurd,” he said. “Sophocles’ genius is quite sufficient to capture first prize.”

“Of course,” I said. “He is most likely innocent. It would take much provocation to bring him to brutal violence.”

Pericles smiled. “Ever the Sophist, Kleides. You will not concede that one of such beauty, honesty, and charm as Sophocles could not kill.”