fingers apart or crush the egg. I tried, employing all my strength, and failed, as he grinned at me mischievously the while.
I never felt afraid with the man or of him. In fact as the days progressed I came to embrace a profound sympathy for the fellow, despite his numerous criminal deeds and lack of repentance therefor. His name, Polemides, as you know, means “child of war.” But he was not a child of just any war, rather one unprecedented in scale and duration and distinguished beyond all previous conflicts by its debasement of that code of honor, justice, and voluntary restraint by whose tenets all prior strife among Hellenes had been conducted. It was indeed this war, the first modern war, which forged our narrator’s destiny and directed it to its end. He began as a soldier and ended as an assassin.How was I any different? Who may disaffirm that I or any other did not enact in the shadows of our private hearts, by commission or omission, that same dark history played out in daylight by our countryman Polemides?
He was, like me, a product of our time. As to the harbor, high road and low follow their several courses along the shore, so his path had paralleled my own and that of the main of our contemporaries, only passing through different country.
III
IN POLEMIDES’ CELL
You ask, Jason
[the prisoner Polemides spoke],
which aspect is most distasteful of the assassin’s art. Knowing you as the paragon of probity you are, you no doubt anticipate some response involving bloodguilt or ritual pollution, perhaps some physical difficulty of the kill. It is neither. The hardest part is bringing back the head.
You have to, to get paid.
Telamon of Arcadia, my mentor in the profession of manslaughter, taught me to pack it in olive oil and bring it home in a jar. In the early days of the war such proof was not required. A ring might do, or an amulet, or so my tutor apprised me later, as at that time I had not yet commenced employment in the “silent art,” but served as a common soldier like everyone else. The assassin’s requirements grew sterner as the war dragged on. Those victims who got the chance invariably pleaded, some quite eloquently, for their lives. For my part I considered it dishonorable, not to say bad business, to yield to such blandishments. I honored my commitments.
I see you smile, Jason. You must remember I was not always a villain. My family counted among its ancestors the hero Philaeus, Ajax’ son, forebear of Miltiades and Cimon, he to whom the rights of the city were granted with his brother Eurysaces, from whom Alcibiades claimed descent. My father was a Knight of Meleager and bred racers, a number of exceptional lineage, including the mare Briareia, who was the pole horse on Alcibiades’ team when it won the crown at Olympia, the year of his magnificent triple, when Euripides himself sang the victory ode. We were good people. People of quality.
That said, I make no pretense to innocence of Alcibiades’ assassination or any other charge. But these scoundrels aren’t after me for that, are they? They’re still too happy to see him dead. Men hatenothing worse than that mirror held before them whose reflection displays their own failure to prove worthy of themselves. This likewise is your master’s crime, Socrates the philosopher. He will suck hemlock for it. My own transgressions, I fear, remain unsullied by such aspirations to honor.
This murder charge, I say, the one of that luckless fellow Philemon…of this I’m innocent. It was an accident! Ask anyone who saw it.
But listen to me beg for my life! I sound like every other lying swine in here. [Laughs.] If I had gold in the yard, I’d dig it up. Yes, and have your way with my wife and daughters as well! [Laughs again.]
But hear me, Jason. I appreciate your coming. I am aware of the demands upon you from other quarters and grateful for your time. I know you
I never felt afraid with the man or of him. In fact as the days progressed I came to embrace a profound sympathy for the fellow, despite his numerous criminal deeds and lack of repentance therefor. His name, Polemides, as you know, means “child of war.” But he was not a child of just any war, rather one unprecedented in scale and duration and distinguished beyond all previous conflicts by its debasement of that code of honor, justice, and voluntary restraint by whose tenets all prior strife among Hellenes had been conducted. It was indeed this war, the first modern war, which forged our narrator’s destiny and directed it to its end. He began as a soldier and ended as an assassin.How was I any different? Who may disaffirm that I or any other did not enact in the shadows of our private hearts, by commission or omission, that same dark history played out in daylight by our countryman Polemides?
He was, like me, a product of our time. As to the harbor, high road and low follow their several courses along the shore, so his path had paralleled my own and that of the main of our contemporaries, only passing through different country.
III
IN POLEMIDES’ CELL
You ask, Jason
[the prisoner Polemides spoke],
which aspect is most distasteful of the assassin’s art. Knowing you as the paragon of probity you are, you no doubt anticipate some response involving bloodguilt or ritual pollution, perhaps some physical difficulty of the kill. It is neither. The hardest part is bringing back the head.
You have to, to get paid.
Telamon of Arcadia, my mentor in the profession of manslaughter, taught me to pack it in olive oil and bring it home in a jar. In the early days of the war such proof was not required. A ring might do, or an amulet, or so my tutor apprised me later, as at that time I had not yet commenced employment in the “silent art,” but served as a common soldier like everyone else. The assassin’s requirements grew sterner as the war dragged on. Those victims who got the chance invariably pleaded, some quite eloquently, for their lives. For my part I considered it dishonorable, not to say bad business, to yield to such blandishments. I honored my commitments.
I see you smile, Jason. You must remember I was not always a villain. My family counted among its ancestors the hero Philaeus, Ajax’ son, forebear of Miltiades and Cimon, he to whom the rights of the city were granted with his brother Eurysaces, from whom Alcibiades claimed descent. My father was a Knight of Meleager and bred racers, a number of exceptional lineage, including the mare Briareia, who was the pole horse on Alcibiades’ team when it won the crown at Olympia, the year of his magnificent triple, when Euripides himself sang the victory ode. We were good people. People of quality.
That said, I make no pretense to innocence of Alcibiades’ assassination or any other charge. But these scoundrels aren’t after me for that, are they? They’re still too happy to see him dead. Men hatenothing worse than that mirror held before them whose reflection displays their own failure to prove worthy of themselves. This likewise is your master’s crime, Socrates the philosopher. He will suck hemlock for it. My own transgressions, I fear, remain unsullied by such aspirations to honor.
This murder charge, I say, the one of that luckless fellow Philemon…of this I’m innocent. It was an accident! Ask anyone who saw it.
But listen to me beg for my life! I sound like every other lying swine in here. [Laughs.] If I had gold in the yard, I’d dig it up. Yes, and have your way with my wife and daughters as well! [Laughs again.]
But hear me, Jason. I appreciate your coming. I am aware of the demands upon you from other quarters and grateful for your time. I know you
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