Justice for Athena

by JM Alvey

  Kallinos strode through the streets and we followed, with Neokles bringing up the rear. Everyone got out of the Scythian commander’s path, visitors and Athenians alike. I saw avid curiosity on a few faces, though I didn’t see anyone I knew. That was a relief. I didn’t want Nymenios or my mother hearing some wildly exaggerated story that I had been hauled off to the city jail. Rumour races around Athens on swift wings.

  We soon arrived at the scene of this crime against gods and men. Two more Scythians were standing guard at the entrance to a narrow alley. They moved aside to let us pass. I swallowed uneasily as I caught the mingled scent of blood and shit that means violent death lies ahead. I’d had a lifetime’s worth of that stench on Boeotia’s battlefields.

  I stole a quick glance to see how Hyanthidas was taking it. He was pale, but resolute. I realised I had no idea what military experience he might have seen. Like me, he wasn’t old enough to have fought the last time Corinth and Athens had gone to war, but it was probably wisest not to ask. If he had seen death up close, and dealt it out in his city’s service, he wouldn’t want to talk about it. I don’t, and nor do my brothers. The only men who glorify war are the helmet-polishers who never get within sniffing distance of a real fight.

  We rounded a curve and I saw the body. A young Scythian who must be a recent arrival was doing his best to keep flies off the corpse. He wasn’t having much success. They needed to get the dead man under cover soon and wash him down with oil, or they’d have a mass of maggots on their hands before his family was found.

  ‘Was he in the tavern?’ Kallinos asked us.

  ‘His own mother wouldn’t recognise him,’ I objected.

  The man’s head wasn’t just badly beaten. His face had been obliterated. There was no recognisable shape to his jaw or his skull, just a bloody mass of matted hair, torn flesh and broken bone. I’ve never seen anything so stomach-churning.

  Kallinos persisted. ‘Is there anything familiar about him?’

  I studied the rest of the corpse, averting my eyes from that shattered head. The dead man was lying on his back, on the red cloak that marked him as an epic poet here to play his part in the Iliad. His arms and legs were sprawled wide, and vicious bruises were dark against the pallor of death on both his forearms.

  ‘He tried to defend himself,’ Hyanthidas observed.

  ‘But he didn’t have a weapon if he took those blows on his arms.’ I looked around. ‘Where’s his staff?’

  The three of us looked up and down the alley.

  ‘There.’ Kallinos pointed, and jerked his head at the youth, who scurried to fetch it.

  The boy brought it back, looking queasy, and offered it to his boss. Kallinos didn’t take it, looking thoughtfully at the foot end. I did the same. It wasn’t easy to see at first, amid the clotted blood and hair, but the staff had been shod with iron to protect the wood. I pictured the poet striking the paving as he strode around the city, making sure that everyone noticed him.

  ‘So that’s what did the damage.’ Kallinos grimaced.

  I steeled myself to look at the corpse’s head again. ‘Whoever did this went on pounding long after the poor bastard was dead.’

  ‘So this was personal,’ the Scythian said grimly.

  ‘Except the killer didn’t bring a weapon, if he used the poet’s own staff,’ I pointed out. ‘Could this just have been a quarrel that got horrendously out of hand?’

  ‘You tell me,’ Kallinos challenged. ‘Was the argument you saw in the tavern savage enough to lead to this?’

  I recalled the squabbling, pompous poets. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. They were mostly showing off, except the Boeotian, but he was obnoxious and drunk. They were all fairly drunk. I suppose that made whoever this is an easy target. On the other side of those scales, I can’t see any of them sneaking up to take someone else by surprise. Not quickly enough to snatch his staff.’

  I tried to picture what had most likely happened, as the oblivious, tipsy victim had sauntered along. Someone had come up silently behind him, maybe grabbed a handful of his cloak and yanked it, to pull him off balance. While the poet was staggering, the killer grabbed his staff. Now the attacker had the upper hand. That’s how I would stage the scene in a play, but this was no laughing matter.

  ‘If they were both drunk, this would have been a much fairer fight.’ I spoke that thought aloud. ‘I reckon whoever did this was sober, and he knew exactly what he was doing. He wanted this man dead.’

  ‘There would have been an awful lot of blood,’ Hyanthidas said grimly. ‘On the killer, I mean.’

  He was right. There was a lot of blood here, far more than the red cloak could soak up. No one could commit a murder as brutal as this without being stained with guilt for all to see.

  There was no doubt this was murder. A street robber would subdue his chosen victim with a swift blow to the head from behind. He’d strip the unconscious man of his valuables as quickly as possible and flee. He wouldn’t want to kill. That guaranteed pursuit by the dead man’s family and the Furies, all intent on revenge. A thief might well leave that red cloak – it was far too distinctive to easily sell – but he wouldn’t leave those rings on his victim’s fingers, and I’d bet good silver this dead man still had his purse.

  I looked at Kallinos. ‘I take it there are no reports of anyone running away from here drenched in blood?’

  He gave me a sardonic look. ‘My men have been asking around, but so far, no. Now, can you help us identify this man or not? Do you think he’s an Athenian or one of the foreigners, at very least?’

  I realised the depths of Kallinos’ frustration. As things stood, he didn’t even know if this brutal death was a case for the Polemarch, as the magistrate who had jurisdiction over visitors’ affairs, or for the Ruling Archon, who presided over cases where an Athenian citizen had been murdered. Nothing could be done to find this killer until the Scythians knew who the dead man was, and his family, if he had one, were told. It would be their duty to avenge him.

  I looked at the dead man’s hands and glanced at Hyanthidas. ‘Do you remember if the Boeotian was wearing any rings? I think he was about this man’s height and build.’

  The Corinthian shook his head helplessly. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t recall one way or the other.’

  I looked at Kallinos. ‘I’m not saying this is him, but I suggest he’s the first poet you go looking for, to see if he’s gone missing, and to see if anyone can identify those rings.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ The Scythian didn’t look too pleased, and I couldn’t blame him. There was nothing more we could do to help though.

  ‘We’ll be on our way.’ I nodded a farewell. ‘Blessed Athena and the Furies send you good hunting.’

  Kallinos grunted. ‘Best get this carrion under cover, lads. Wrap him up in that cloak.’

  Hyanthidas and I hurried away, very glad to leave the dead man behind us.

  I turned to my friend. ‘That’s that then. Now, shall we show Telesilla something of Athens’ glories before the festival starts?’

  Chapter Three

  We left Arion making himself useful to the Corinthian householder, and spent a pleasant few hours showing Telesilla the sights. The building programme instigated by Pericles was renewing the city all around us. Up on the Acropolis, the most important work was rebuilding the ancient temples that the Persians had burned when they sacked our city in my grandfather’s day. The magnificent new temple to Athena was still surrounded by wooden scaffolding, but it was easy to see this would be the sacred precinct’s crowning glory. I was really looking forward to seeing it complete with brightly painted statues, with their bronze swords and crowns gleaming in the sun. The craftsmen and their slaves were still hard at work. I could taste stone dust in the air as the ring of chisels rose above the chatter of the crowds.

  Athena isn’t the only divine guardian of our city. Homer reminds us that Erechtheus had a shining temple here in Agamemnon’s day. That shrine has endured as the site of our civic sa
crifices and as our democracy’s treasury, diligently repaired after the ravages of the Persian invaders. Earth-born Erechtheus and his rites have ties to the mysteries that await the dead, and I commended the murdered poet to his care. I had no doubt that the god and his serpents had seen whatever had happened, and would be seeking vengeance. Erechtheus had founded the annual City Panathenaia to honour Athena. This vile murder hadn’t only defiled the city with blood spilled with such evil intent. The Iliad’s performance at this four-yearly Great Panathenaia is as much a gift to the goddess as it’s an entertainment.

  Coming down from the busy heights, we showed Telesilla the theatre of Dionysos, where the musical contests would take place. As we walked across to bow dutifully to the ancient statue on the dancing floor below the stage, she startled me by singing a few lines of a hymn to honour the god. Her rich, mellifluous voice prompted a ripple of applause from someone up in the highest ranks of seats on the hillside. Telesilla smiled and waved to whoever it was.

  She turned to Hyanthidas with an encouraging smile. ‘It’s a fine place to make your skills heard.’

  I shouldn’t have been surprised that she had a professional interest in the venue. I knew from our visit to Corinth that she was a superb singer in her own right, as well as a talented lyre player. All the same, I hoped she wouldn’t sing anything else. Some busybody or an officious temple slave telling her that wasn’t done by respectable women in Athens would cast a shadow over our day.

  ‘Are you only entering the unaccompanied twin pipes contest,’ Zosime asked Hyanthidas, ‘or are you playing for a singer as well?’

  ‘Just competing on my own,’ he told her. ‘We did have a friend, a singer, who was thinking of making the trip, but he decided against it.’

  ‘A good thing, too,’ Telesilla said judiciously as we walked out of the theatre. ‘He’s talented, but not that experienced.’ Her words were kind rather than critical. ‘He’d find himself thoroughly outclassed here, and that would shred his confidence. I’d rather see him win garlands at a few city festivals before he takes to a panhellenic stage.’

  Hyanthidas nodded agreement. ‘We have a few friends taking part in the lyre contests, both as soloists and accompanying themselves as they sing.’

  From the keen anticipation on his face, I didn’t think either of our friends would be turning their attention to Homer’s poetry until the musical competitions were over.

  We took the path that skirted the southern face of the Acropolis, and headed for the agora. Athens’ central market is always busy, and today the hum of commerce was more hectic than ever. They say that everything’s for sale here, if you know where to look, from turnips to honeycomb, to myrtle for garlands, from fresh lamb for your dining table to water clocks so you can practise a speech, to witnesses for a court case.

  Today, the best of the fresh fruit and vegetables brought into the city at dawn from Attica’s farms was already long gone, along with the pick of the cheese and eggs. Slaves from households expecting hordes of guests would have been waiting here at first light to buy what their mistresses demanded. Kadous would have been with those following a little later. We could trust him to make sure we had everything we needed without paying over the odds. Now the slower and poorer were here to make the best of whatever was left. They had better hurry up. It wouldn’t be long before there was another clamour to summon slaves from the wealthiest households, when the bells rang to tell everyone the day’s fresh fish was coming up from Piraeus.

  Sausage-grillers and the nut and raisin merchants were doing brisk business. Carts carrying wine amphorae and tall jars of fresh spring water stood at the junctions where side streets entered the marketplace. The cart owners were selling cups of well-mixed wine as fast as they could pour out such refreshment. Some customers were grabbing a snack or a drink as they rushed between the Council Chamber and the Law Court, getting something vital done before legal and official business was suspended. Others were strolling past the food- and wine-sellers, seeing what was on offer and making their choices at their leisure. Our friends from Corinth weren’t the only visitors admiring the shrines to the gods who watch over us, as well as the statues to honour Athens’ lawgivers and military heroes.

  I couldn’t help glancing over at the Painted Colonnade, where magnificent portrayals of great Hellenic victories from Troy to Marathon educate the next generation of citizens about duty and sacrifice. Visiting tutors lecture there, sharing their philosophies on history, mathematics and the natural world. I could see several men in the shade gesticulating to an attentive audience, hoping for a modest shower of silver coin in return. Jugglers and acrobats were plying their humbler trades to entertain the bustling crowds.

  What I couldn’t see were many scribes-for-hire touting for trade out on the colonnade’s steps. That was a relief. I didn’t want to think I was missing out on too many lucrative jobs.

  ‘I know the foot races will take place here, but what about the rest of the athletics?’ Hyanthidas broke off as he was jostled.

  ‘The pentathlon competitions will be held out at the Lyceum. That’s the gymnasium where my brothers and I had our schooling, and where we still exercise,’ I explained to Telesilla. ‘The wrestling, boxing and pankration contests will take place at the Academy.’

  Zosime grimaced. ‘Unless you’ve got a taste for sweaty crowds cheering as strong men beat each other bloody, I recommend watching the pentathlon.’

  I couldn’t argue with that. The boxing and wrestling can be brutal enough but their bastard offspring, the no-holds-barred pankration, can see men killed. Wrestling may be the fifth and last part of the pentathlon, after the sprint, jump, javelin and discus contests, but skill is prized over brute force. Those athletes want to avoid injuries that will wreck their chances in the other events at the next festival.

  ‘Both gymnasiums are a fair distance beyond the city walls.’ Hyanthidas didn’t look too keen on the idea of either walk in the heat.

  ‘Or we could go and visit Alopeke,’ Telesilla said brightly.

  ‘By all means.’ Zosime smiled.

  We bought the makings of a generous late lunch and walked out of the Itonian Gate. We arrived home to see laughter and bustle further down the lane as Sosistratos and his family welcomed cousins from the country. I knocked at our gate and Kadous opened up.

  ‘We’ve come back—’ I broke off as I saw a wholly unexpected face. ‘Ambrakis?’ I couldn’t think what my former patron’s bodyguard was doing here.

  The broad-shouldered slave ducked his head politely. ‘My master’s compliments, and he asks you to call on him.’

  ‘Oh. I mean, of course.’ There was nothing to be gained and potentially much to be lost by offending one of Athens’ wealthiest men. Besides, I liked and trusted Aristarchos, who had been appointed by the city to fund my first Dionysia play. He wouldn’t ask to see me unless he had some good reason.

  I looked at Hyanthidas and Telesilla. ‘I imagine you’ll want tomorrow to yourselves? For some final rehearsals?’ As they nodded, I looked at Ambrakis. ‘Please tell your master I will call on him first thing in the morning.’

  The big slave gazed at me, stolid and uninformative. ‘My master wishes to see you today.’

  ‘Oh.’ I wanted to ask why, but there was no point in that. I might have learned more if this messenger had been Lydis. The slave who serves as Aristarchos’ secretary is as quick-witted as he is light on his feet. Ambrakis is a bodyguard though. He’s not stupid, by any means, but his duties are first and foremost looking menacing enough to scare off any ambitious street robbers and carrying a torch when it gets dark.

  ‘Go on. Don’t mind us.’ Hyanthidas understood my dilemma. A large part of his own livelihood depended on the goodwill of Corinth’s rich and powerful men. Perhaps our cities aren’t so very different.

  ‘We’ll be fine here until you get back,’ Zosime assured me.

  ‘Can I at least have something to eat?’

  Ambrakis ducked his head ag
ain, and went to wait by the gate. Kadous was already laying out the food on the table in the porch. I didn’t take a seat as I quickly ate bread, cheese and olives, and washed down my last mouthful with the final swallow from my cup. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  ‘We’ll be fine.’ Zosime stood up to kiss me.

  I kissed her back as Kadous opened up the gate, and I followed Ambrakis out into the lane. Over the wall opposite, I could hear Mikos’ infant son fussing until someone distracted him with a cheerful song about a cockerel singing ki-kiriki-ki. I wondered if the old fool was really the father of the second child now swelling his wife’s belly. Zosime had her doubts, and it’s rarely wise to second-guess my beloved. An Athenian citizen might be absolute master over those living in his household, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he knows everything that happens inside his gates.

  On the main road, Ambrakis strode on ahead of me. People glanced over their shoulders when they wondered what had blotted out the sun. They quickly got out of his way and I hurried along behind him.

  As we approached the city, I wondered if Aristarchos had heard any rumours about who might be called to read for the magistrates selecting the next Dionysia playwrights. He wouldn’t be one of this year’s paymasters. It hadn’t been long enough since he’d been selected to offer that particular service to the gods, over and above paying his taxes to the city. I’d been very lucky. Aristarchos hadn’t stinted when he’d financed my play, from the first rehearsal to the fat purse of silver he’d given us after the competition, to celebrate the chorus’s final dance.

  I’d realised how very lucky I’d been when I got my second chance at a Dionysia play. I was never invited to Tolmaeos’ house, to discuss my plans and needs. I only met him twice before he walked in the festival procession as the populace honoured those great men offering up their wealth for the good of the city. For everything else, through the months of rehearsal, I dealt with his secretary, Myskon. The sour-faced Syracusan wanted every sixteenth of an obol accounted for, and he had to be convinced every single time that every single thing couldn’t be got cheaper somewhere, somehow. It had been an education in how wealthy men stay rich, and it had been exhausting.