Long before the Roman world established its power throughout the Mediterranean, the culture, language and authority of the Greeks held sway. Unlike the Romans the Greeks never sought world domination – they were too busy squabbling with each other to achieve it, but it never interested them. Their culture held art and philosophy almost as precious as power. One of their most famous philosophers was Socrates, who lived in Athens from 469–399 BC. Brèni James wrote two stories about Socrates. The first, ‘Socrates Solves a Murder’, I reprinted in The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits. Here’s the second.
Socrates paused at the foot of the Acropolis and looked up at the marble façade of the outer gates. He stood with the grace of a soldier, though his military career was some ten years behind him and a certain roundness at his waistline belied his graceful carriage.
The setting sun dipped beneath the overcast that had darkened the afternoon sky, and flashed its final splendor across Athens like a retreating hoplite tossing a flambeau over his shoulder. The fire-red beams fell on the columns and the great bronze doors of the Propylaea, the outer gates, that rose above the western brink of the hill.
‘It is truly the jewel in the forehead of Athens,’ said the philosopher, his eyes still on the marble gateway. Despite the pug nose and protruding eyes, his face showed a great and serene beauty. He turned and smiled at his companion of the moment, Mnesicles, who was the architect of the great outer gates.
Mnesicles, a man in his late forties, blushed like a youth at this compliment from the man who, though almost ten years younger than himself, was acclaimed by many as the greatest thinker of their time.
At length he ventured, ‘Socrates, if the Propylaea is indeed a jewel, it is complete only in its setting.’
‘I know,’ Socrates said quietly. The great dream of the architect had been cut short by the new government. Four hundred talents had already gone into the construction of the great gates, but war and the whim of the city had cut off appropriations. The south wing of the edifice had scarcely been begun, and now it hung like an undeveloped limb on an otherwise perfect body.
‘Perhaps when Athenians tire of seeing so splendid a work left in such imbalance, they will find money enough for you to finish it, Mnesicles.’
‘I’ve always thought they would,’ shrugged the architect. ‘The money was withdrawn while we were still working on the north wing. I could have modified my plans, but I kept hoping that at the last minute, perhaps . . .’
His voice trailed off. Socrates looked at him closely. Mnesicles was a pale, unobtrusive little man; today he looked as though a great sickness had come upon him. Even his bald head had a certain unhealthy pallor about it, and his fine eyes were glazed.
‘After we get a permanent peace,’ Socrates began helpfully, but the architect cut him off.
‘No, no,’ he said dismally. ‘There is money enough now, but there are other plans for it.’ He looked at his friend. ‘Have you noticed the two murals being painted in the west portico?’ he asked.
‘I’ve not seen them yet, but I understand they are the works of Parrhasius and Zeuxis.’
‘And not just in the west portico, my dear Socrates. They have commissions for every bare wall in the place.’
‘I should think they would first let you build them more walls. Well, I’m glad I found you in the market; a few peaceful moments in the Acropolis together will cheer you.’
The philosopher took the other’s arm, and led Mnesicles up the winding slope, past the random votive offerings and pieces of statuary that lined the path. One of the architect’s slaves, a young boy of perhaps sixteen, fell in silently behind them as they walked up to the Propylaea.
The huge bronze doors in the center of the gateway were closed this late in the day, but one of the smaller ones on their right was still open. They walked through it and found their way to the large west portico of the structure. Their destination was to have been a sanctuary beyond, in the Acropolis, but they were halted by a strange sight: next to the south wall, beneath a flamboyant mural, lay the naked body of a youth not much older than the slave who attended them.
The two men bent over the lifeless form, Socrates hitching his untidy mantle out of the way of a pool of blood that had seeped from the underside of the naked youth’s head.
‘Who do you think it is?’ asked Mnesicles in a whisper.
Socrates passed his hands over the heavy muscles of the back and turned one of the limp hands over, touching the calluses there with a gentle finger. ‘A slave, wouldn’t you say? One that carried heavy loads. Perhaps a stonemason’s or statuary’s helper.’
The architect remained silent. Socrates looked troubled for a moment, eyeing the peculiar position of the graceful body. It was spread out, face down, limbs apart, as though the boy had been beaten and had been thrashing about on the ground before his death. But there were no marks on the body, save for what was obviously a fatal blow on the head.
One glance at the mural before which the body lay, however, explained the discrepancy. ‘Compare them,’ said Socrates, indicating the corpse and the central figure of the painting. They were exactly alike, save for the fact that the boy’s face showed nothing but death, and the face of the figure in the mural showed an ecstasy of pain. They could almost hear screams of insult and indignant agony from the lifelike mouth of the painted creature.
Mnesicles sucked in his breath as the horror of the sight brought a flush to his sallow cheeks.
‘Which of the two painters would you say did this scene?’ Socrates asked.
‘Parrhasius.’ The architect spat out the word as though it had blood on it.
‘I have heard that Parrhasius will go to great lengths to get realism in his paintings. Do you think that is true?’
‘He is said to . . . to torture slaves to get the look of pain he wishes to copy, Socrates.’
‘Perhaps you had better send your attendant to fetch Parrhasius. And Zeuxis, too. But no word of this death to either of them.’
The philosopher had risen from the body and turned to look at the mural on the wall across the portico – the one that, to judge from its style, was being done by Zeuxis. It was a portrait of the young Endymion, a beautiful youth reclining in an attitude of undisturbed sleep.
At Socrates’ suggestion the architect and he waited for the painters outside the bronze gates, and at length they spied the pair walking up the slope followed by Mnesicles’ servant.
Zeuxis was more readily discernible in the twilight, not only by reason of his six-foot-four stature, but because he wore a mantle of remarkable fashion: it was checkered red and green. Once along the path he paused to speak to his companion, turning his back to the men above, and they could easily distinguish in the dusk the great gold-embroidered letters on the back of the mantle which spelled out ZEUXIS. He swaggered, gesturing freely, apparently deep in a one-sided conversation.
His listener and fellow artist, Parrhasius, was robed in purple; and as the pair reached the marble stairs of the Propylaea, the fading sun caught the golden crown that Parrhasius wore atop his dark curls, and by which, as everyone knew, he proclaimed himself ‘The Prince of Painters.’
Physically Parrhasius was somewhat less prepossessing than his competitor. He was nearly as tall, but a thickness of indolent fat encased what might otherwise have been a well-proportioned figure. His features were gross, his beard a tight-curled fur that clung to his round face like a small frightened animal.
‘Socrates!’ exclaimed Zeuxis in a high voice, pushing the other artist arrogantly aside. ‘My dear friend, my fellow art-lover, how good of you to come to see my work! I regret it is not yet finished.’
Parrhasius nodded to the two older men, but only slightly, as though his crown might topple. ‘Are we to have another contest?’ he smiled faintly.
It had been the talk of Athens, not too long before, that the rivals had agreed to a public showing of their best works. Zeuxis had displayed a portrait of a boy holding a bunch of grapes, and it was so realistic – or so gossip said – that it deceived birds which swept down to peck at the luscious fruit. But when Parrhasius was asked to unveil his panel, it was discovered – to Zeuxis’ dismay – that the heavy drapery that had seemed only a covering was, in fact, the painting. It was after this triumph that Parrhasius crowned himself and took to wearing the purple.
Socrates looked at the two intently. ‘We shall indeed have a contest,’ he said.
‘Then I take it,’ said Parrhasius in a deep baritone, ‘that you have seen my mural of Apollo beating the flute player?’
‘I have seen both that and Zeuxis’ Endymion. And I should like to know more about both. If Zeuxis will give us leave, let us, Parrhasius, speak first of yours.’
Zeuxis’ restless eyes glanced over the other three men and the slave who had returned with them. He pressed his lips into a trembling, moist smile and nodded, adjusting the checkered mantle with fastidious hands.
Socrates: Parrhasius, we two have spoken of art before. I recall that we agreed that whereas men copy the gods, artists copy men, did we not?
Parrhasius: Yes, I recall that we did.
Socrates: And it was your feeling that art should mimic faithfully the actions of men?
Parrhasius: And their states of mind, too, Socrates.
Socrates: By state of mind do you mean their character, Parrhasius? Or what they are thinking at a particular moment?
Parrhasius: Their thoughts.
Socrates: Perhaps we should qualify it even further. Not their thoughts so much, would you say, as their feelings, their reactions to what is inflicted upon them?
Parrhasius: That would be more correct, Socrates.
Socrates: Do you feel you convey this in the portrait of Marsyas you have painted inside?
Parrhasius: I shall have, when it is completed.
Socrates: And what is left to be done?
Parrhasius: I wish to add a few refinements to the face and hair.
Socrates: The body is finished?
Parrhasius: As finished as bodies ever are for me.
Socrates: You don’t feel the limbs still need more work?
Parrhasius: It is Zeuxis who prides himself on knowing bone structure and such things.
Socrates: Then, Parrhasius, you were working on the face today?
Parrhasius: I would have, but it was too cloudy to get the proper light.
Socrates: And what do you do when you cannot paint?
Parrhasius: Today I took a walk on the banks of the Ilissus. But what of that?
Socrates: A charming place to walk. You were alone?
Parrhasius: Yes, alone.
Socrates turned now to the other artist, who was fidgeting with his checkered mantle and pushing the blond curls off his forehead with slender, nervous fingers.
Socrates: Now, Zeuxis, perhaps you will tell us in what fashion you disagree with Parrhasius in matters of art, for I know you are lively opponents.
Zeuxis: I can achieve greatness without resorting to his cruel . . .
Parrhasius interrupted him with a snort. ‘You would do anything for what you call beauty!’ he snapped.
Zeuxis: For beauty one does not have to resort to violence!
Parrhasius: And for truth, Zeuxis, one can crush beauty underfoot!
Socrates: Gentlemen, please! A few more questions, Zeuxis, and then we can talk more about truth. You say you seek beauty in art. Is this beauty as the gods have conceived it, or as an artist perceives it in man?
Zeuxis: The latter, Socrates.
Socrates: And do you, as Parrhasius does, strive to capture in your work the beauty of a man’s emotions?
Zeuxis: I do not think emotions are beautiful, Socrates. I prefer to copy beauty in perfect repose, so long as it makes for a true picture.
Socrates: True to life, you mean?
Zeuxis: If that is my subject, yes.
Socrates: And I take it that on this cloudy day, you also were unable to paint?
Zeuxis: Parrhasius paints in the afternoons, but I in the morning. There was sunlight before noon.
Socrates: And in the afternoon?
Zeuxis: I was weary after the morning’s work. I slept this afternoon, as I often do.
Socrates: Now then, my friends, let us go within the gates and see what truths we can discover.
The quartet walked to the west portico where Socrates stood aside to watch the two artists make their macabre discovery. Zeuxis paled and bade the slave of Mnesicles to support him. Parrhasius reddened with anger. He turned to glare at Zeuxis.
‘If this is your trick,’ he menaced the artist, ‘I’ll thrash you till Apollo takes the whip!’
‘Do you know the boy?’ Socrates asked coolly. Both artists protested they had never seen the young man before. They glowered at each other, but there was a deep perplexity in their faces and silently they turned to Socrates.
Mnesicles, looking from one to the other of the artists, at length muttered to the philosopher: ‘Could either of them use a corpse for a model, Socrates, without attracting unwelcome attention?’
Socrates: We happened on the body just after the gates were closed and neither of them was here. But do you think we would have shown unseemly curiosity if an artist pretended to paint from so still, so apparently obedient a model?
Mnesicles: Someone would surely have seen the blood.
Parrhasius: And do you think I would leave a dead body here until morning, for Zeuxis to come upon?
Socrates: If you wished to paint from such a model, I think you would have decided yourself that the morning sun is sufficient.
Zeuxis: And you’re cold-blooded enough to do such a thing, Parrhasius! You’d torture to get that look on the face of Marsyas!
Parrhasius: I . . . I will admit that, but . . .
Socrates: That is precisely why I fail to see any possibility that Parrhasius is guilty of this crime.
Mnesicles: I’m afraid I don’t see that at all!
Socrates: It was a quick death, we are agreed?
Mnesicles: Yes, certainly – a vicious blow on the head.
Socrates: And do you think, then, that he would use a dead man from which to copy Marsyas’ living agony?
Mnesicles: But, Socrates, how else would you account for the extraordinary similarity of the pose?
Socrates: I think the body was placed thus to lead us to your error, Mnesicles.
Mnesicles: Then . . . Where is Zeuxis?
For the first time they noticed that Zeuxis had slipped away. Parrhasius flushed with indignation, and Mnesicles began to wring his hands. Then he suddenly clapped his hands and blurted out: ‘Of course, of course! The sleeping Endymion! I’ll send my boy to fetch him!’
Socrates: It is not necessary, Mnesicles. I rather think he was too ill to stay. He’s probably outside the gates, waiting for us. It is not Zeuxis who is the murderer.
Mnesicles: How can you say that, Socrates?
Socrates: You will recall, Mnesicles, that when I first questioned them they both agreed they strive for true copies of men. If Parrhasius used a model for the tortured Marsyas, you may be sure the model was tortured. And likewise, if Zeuxis used a model for the sleeping Endymion, you may be equally sure the model would be sleeping. Neither of them needed a model for death.
Mnesicles: Then we are left with an unidentified slave killed for an unknown reason.
Socrates: Perhaps not. If we assume that neither artist gained by the death, may we not also say that they suffered from it?
Mnesicles: What do you mean, Socrates?
Socrates: Should either artist have been blamed for the murder, would the city punish the one and retain the other? Or, since they are working as a team, wouldn’t the entire project be discontinued?
Mnesicles: I suppose the scandal would cause the latter.
Socrates: And, with money left unspent that would have gone into the decoration of the unfinished Propylaea, do you suppose the city might authorize the completing of the structure itself? Indeed, Mnesicles, was that not your supposition when you killed your slave this evening?
Mnesicles backed toward the wall. Parrhasius moved toward him, fists clenched. ‘Confess!’ said the artist.
Mnesicles: Certainly not! It is all the slimmest of conjecture. None of you recognized the body as that of my slave!
Socrates: But a gentleman of your position does not enter the market place with only one attendant, Mnesicles. You ought to have sent this lad to fetch another.
Parrhasius: Yes, the boy here! I’ve no doubt you will need his help in this. Wait until he testifies!
Socrates glanced at the slave and then at Mnesicles. He touched his beard with a speculative gesture. ‘It is a pity,’ he said, ‘that our laws require that slaves be tortured to get their testimony – a pity we cannot confirm the truth without such means.’
Mnesicles looked affectionately at the sixteen-year-old who served him. The slave hunched his shoulders almost imperceptibly and pulled in his chin like a stubborn child awaiting a disciplinary blow. His eyes were frightened. He smiled crookedly at his master.
‘I will say nothing,’ he whispered bravely.
‘Will they make the boy testify,’ Mnesicles asked softly then, ‘if I confess?’