Aristotle Detective by Margaret Doody

Author:Margaret Doody [Doody, Margaret]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The University of Chicago Press
Published: 1978-07-14T16:00:00+00:00

XIII

The Last Prodikasia

On the day before the third prodikasia I was walking along the great street that runs under the south side of the Akropolis (the street with all the festival monuments in it) when I heard a buzz of voices.

“Is it not huge!”

“What magnificent carving!”

People pressed forward to see something coming down the street, so I did too. Coming towards us was a wheeled cart pulled by two mules and pushed by slaves. In the cart was something white that gleamed in the thin winter sunshine like a hill of snow, something packed tightly round with bundles of straw and held upright by slaves. As this came closer, I could see what it was. A monument. A tombstone. I knew whose it must be, even before I saw it. Fascinated, I moved toward the cart and stood at the edge of the road to watch it as it passed.

The stone was a splendid piece of pure marble, exquisitely cut and shaped. Upon it there were carved the sitting figures of Boutades and his wife, sculpted in high relief. There was Boutades, moving slowly past me. It was a shock to see his face, now so familiar to my waking dreams. The heavy face and figure were somewhat refined by the sculptor’s sense of the beautiful; the arrogant nature which looked out at you from those sightless eyes had acquired a dignity more than in life, and not all the lines on his face had been reproduced. Still, it was a good and telling likeness, unmistakable, even to the way the hair grew. Of course, there was no suggestion of the horror of the man’s end, or of the grimace which that face had worn just after death that fatal morning. His thin wife sat submissively by her husband’s side, every line in her body in its attractively flowing khiton suggesting graceful obedience. They looked a happy and prosperous middle-aged couple.

I began to read the inscription under the figures, telling of Boutades’ rank, services and many virtues, and expressing the sorrows of his survivors, especially of his nephew, Polygnotos, who had caused the monument to be made. Nothing was said about the manner of these people’s deaths. I was aware of noises of approbation from the small crowd about me. I do not know at what point I became uneasy, hearing the sounds change to murmurs of disapproval, even horror. I looked up—and saw one of those near me nudging his neighbor and drawing back; both then looked at me with expressions of angry fright.

“He is desecrating the monument!” one said.

I realized that my own shadow was falling athwart the pure glistening stone, darkening the very face of Boutades. Now one of the slaves pushing the cart (probably a slave who had once served Boutades himself in life) recognized me too, and frowning, made the sign which averts evil influences. I was grieved and ashamed. It was true—my presence here was a kind of pollution. I should have had the sense to go another way directly I realized what was coming up the street.

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