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‘Yes,’ said Simonides, ‘it was Hermocrates of Athens, known as Hermocrates of Kos.’ At this, both Philodemus and I sat down abruptly. Simonides looked at me enquiringly: ‘What is it, master?’ he asked. I said: ‘Well, my lord, a few years ago Philodemus and I helped to solve the mystery of a votive statuette—a beautiful piece—also made by Hermocrates. It had been stolen from a temple in Athens. And our enquiries led to the end of my long friendship with Hermocrates, since I had to disclose something bad he had done.’ I sighed, thinking of a lost friendship. ‘As a matter of fact, I was the one, when we were boys, to dub him “Hermocrates of Kos”, because that is where he was brought up. Very like myself: I too am an Athenian, but I am commonly known as “Crito of Samos” after my place of upbringing, and because my mother is of mixed extraction.’
‘Ah,’ said Simonides. ‘I heard something about that theft. I seem to remember that Hermocrates had a cloud over his name at the time, though I’ve forgotten the details, if I ever knew them. But look!’ He gestured. And we looked again at the likeness of the son of Simonides. There were tears on the cheeks of Simonides. He wiped them away once more. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘if I draw the curtain. Seeing this representation is painful to me when my son is lost.’
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