by JM Alvey
As we passed through the gate and walked through the city, I was forced to admit, as Dionysos is my judge, that such miserliness had nothing to do with my play coming third. Isagoras was an experienced chorus master who had done a good job. So had Lysicrates, Menekles and Apollonides in their respective roles. If we hadn’t had the most expensive costumes and masks, the ones we did have were perfectly good.
Something about the play simply hadn’t struck a chord with the audience. Athens wasn’t ready for a comedy about a pack of dogs trying to persuade Zeus to recognise their claim to live undisturbed and well-fed in a country temple’s precinct, when cats led by a slinky Egyptian feline sought to charm the old priestess into giving them precedence and first pick of the scraps from the sacrifices burned on the altar. The audience hadn’t pelted us with nuts, and they’d laughed in the right places, even if they hadn’t laughed as long or as loud as I’d hoped. The play had been good enough to be placed third, and Tolmaeos had been content to accept congratulations from his well-born friends. He had thanked me, and I hadn’t seen him since.
But as far as I was concerned, my months of work had been in vain. Athens had seen my play and had already forgotten it. No one from any of the rural theatres had approached us to have The Hounds staged out in Attica to entertain a country audience who might be more easily pleased.
‘This way.’ Ambrakis broke into my disconsolate thoughts.
‘Wait. Where are we going?’ I’d been assuming we were heading for Aristarchos’ spacious house, in the heart of the city and so well placed for the agora, the Areopagus and the Pnyx. Wealthy men who are also wise repay Athena for her favour by taking a keen interest in the laws, debates and court cases that underpin and defend our democracy. Aristarchos certainly does. But Ambrakis had taken a street leading east.
He shrugged. ‘Temple of Olympian Zeus.’
That was no real answer, but I tried not to take out my bad temper on Ambrakis. My father had taught me better. I also knew Aristarchos considered one measure of a man was how well he treated his own slaves and other people’s. At least I’d have a shorter walk home.
This temple’s precinct was nowhere near as busy as the Acropolis. I could see a few visitors gawking at the handful of half-completed columns and the roughly finished platform that should have supported the rest of what would have been a truly massive building. There were no craftsmen or slaves working here though, and there hadn’t been since before I was born. Neither Pericles nor anyone else had any intention of paying for this ambitious project to be finished.
But this was still sacred ground. There had been a temple here to the greatest of gods since heroes walked this earth. So I breathed a humble supplication to almighty Zeus, and promised to accept being passed over for the next Dionysia with good grace.
It was a fitting place for such humility. The unfinished temple has been left to serve as a perpetual reminder of the perils of arrogance. The tyrant Peisistratos demolished the ancient shrine to rebuild it as a monument to his own glory as much as to honour Olympian Zeus. The god bided his time and had his revenge for that insult. The tyrant’s own sons demolished their father’s work, as they sought to build an even bigger temple, greater than any in Athens or far beyond. The greater the hubris, the greater the punishment from the gods. Hippias and Hipparchos were soon overthrown, and Athens took the road to democracy.
I saw Aristarchos walking towards us along the side of the temple. For a man who’s served his family and Athens for thirty or so years since he did his military training, he is still fit and active. There’s barely any grey in his hair, and most would consider him still in his prime, until they got close enough to see the fine lines creasing his face.
As we approached, he greeted me with a brief smile. ‘Philocles, thank you for coming. Forgive me for intruding on your day.’
His expression turned serious again, and his dark eyes were intent. I didn’t think this had anything to do with the Dionysia.
‘I know you wouldn’t ask to see me without good reason. Though I do have guests to get back to.’
Aristarchos valued straight talking. He acknowledged my duty as a host with a nod.
‘Our visitors arrive tomorrow, so my wife has her slaves rushing about. I thought we could meet here for some peace and privacy.’
I’d never met Aristarchos’ wife, but from what I knew of her, she was a formidable woman, and not someone I wanted to annoy by getting under her household’s feet. ‘So how may I help you?’
‘You know that a poet has been murdered. One of those here to take part in the Iliad’s performance? A relative of my wife, Melesias Philaid, is the festival commissioner in charge of the epic contest. As you might imagine, he’s appalled by this news.’
‘Understandably.’ That explained how Aristarchos knew about the death. The ties of family and obligation bind the wealthy as tightly as the rest of us. More tightly, sometimes. There are fewer of them and they marry each other. That’s another way they stay rich.
I didn’t bother asking how he’d heard I’d been caught up in this business. The great and the good of Athens have interests across the city, so they’re quick to hear about unforeseen events. Those who envy the oligarchs in cities like Corinth shrug and move on – unless they can see a way to profit. Men like Aristarchos accept their duty to see things put right.
He started walking, more slowly this time. ‘I sent for the Scythian who’s looking into this matter.’
‘Kallinos.’ I walked with him. Ambrakis followed us, ten or so paces behind.
‘The city slave who helped you secure justice for the dead man who was dumped at your gate.’ Aristarchos gestured past me towards the massive stumps of the unfinished pillars. ‘You don’t see great Zeus’s hand in that coincidence?’
‘I would never be so bold to presume to know the will of any god.’ I’m no such fool.
Aristarchos made a non-committal sound. ‘You and I both know there are men who wish this city ill-fortune, inside our walls and beyond. If the epic poetry competition is disrupted, Athens will be humiliated, as well as Melesias Philaid.’
‘Indeed.’ We’d had this conversation before, or one very like it. We had thought someone was trying to embarrass Aristarchos politically by trying to sabotage the Dionysia play he sponsored. Instead we uncovered a web of greed and malice when we tracked down the killers who’d left that corpse at my door.
‘Melesias has asked for my help, and now I am asking for yours,’ he said briskly. ‘We want to know what lies behind this killing. It may be a personal quarrel, or it may be something more. If there’s any threat to the Great Panathenaia, we have a duty to divine Athena, as well as to Olympian Zeus, to see that stopped.’
‘We do.’ I might not see a god’s hand in Kallinos being the Scythian who’d been sent to scrape the dead poet off that alley floor, but it was hard not to see some divine thumb on the scales.
Each year five hundred Council members are selected by lottery to serve the city, fifty from each of the tribes that every male citizen belongs to in order to vote. The festival commissioners are selected by another lottery, one for each tribe, from each group of fifty, to serve for the full four years between each Great Panathenaia. Those votes can’t be fixed. The commissioner in charge of the epic contest could just as easily have been a bean-chewing rower from the hovels of Piraeus as someone as well-born as Aristarchos. All Athenians are equal in our democracy, and our lotteries for official posts help ensure it.
Even so, there’s no denying that being born into an ancient family blessed with land and the wealth that flows from it does smooth a man’s path through life. So does having the right friends. Whether it was Zeus, Athena or the avenging Furies, some deity had brought this killing to Aristarchos’ attention. Some divine power must be confident that my noble friend had the influence and connections to see this murderer pursued, as well as the resolve not to shirk such a duty. Since I was one of those connections, it would be very unwise for me t
o offend that unknown god by saying no. Besides, the well-born and well-connected Melesias Philaid might need a writer for hire some time…
‘What can I do to help?’
‘We need to know the dead man’s name. Since he’s been left unrecognisable, someone needs to track down the poets who were drinking in that tavern last night. If they can be accounted for, then the rest of those here to perform the Iliad must be found, and quickly.’
‘Someone’ meaning me. This wasn’t how I’d planned to spend the rest of my day. ‘The Scythians—’
‘The Scythians will be spread across the city keeping order even before the festival begins,’ Aristarchos said crisply. ‘You know what the Great Panathenaia is like. Someone else needs to pursue this killer, and you’ve proved your worth serving the Furies before.’
That’s the problem with doing a good job once – perhaps twice, if uncovering the truth behind another killing in Corinth counted. Do something right and you’re bound to be asked to do it again.
Aristarchos reached inside his tunic and took out a tightly rolled sheet of papyrus threaded through three ornate rings, one gold and two silver. ‘This is the list of the poets who were chosen to perform this festival’s Iliad, with directions to their lodgings. See who’s gone missing, and ideally, see if anyone can identify these rings. Come to see me as soon as you think you know the dead man’s name. We can see where that leads us.’
I took the scroll and the rings and tucked them safely inside my own tunic. I couldn’t see I had any option. I could only hope that learning the dead man’s name would tell us who had reason to kill him. I had the rest of the day and tomorrow to find out before the Great Panathenaia started.
Chapter Four
The walk home gave me time to work out what I was going to say to Zosime and the others, when I found them sitting in the shade of our porch. As I expected, they were startled to learn what Aristarchos wanted me to do, to see justice done, and to help out his hapless relative Melesias Philaid.
‘There’s no reason this should take up too much time,’ I said quickly. ‘If the dead man is some foreigner, this becomes the Polemarch’s concern. With any luck, whatever town or island he came from will have ties to some rich Athenian who serves as their Visitor’s Advocate in dealings with our magistrates. He’ll send a messenger to wherever the man came from, to let his family know what’s happened. It’s their duty to pursue the killer, with their Visitor’s Advocate’s help.’
Though I wondered how long it would take to notify the bereaved, especially if the dead man was from some far-flung city. The killer could well find he had all the time he needed to get away with this foul murder.
Hyanthidas held out his hand. ‘May I see those rings?’
I handed them over. ‘If he’s an Athenian, the Ruling Archon will notify his brother, or his father – whoever’s head of that family. They’ll enlist their district brotherhood to help see justice done. It won’t be long before they find someone who knows something. The most they’ll ask of me is being a witness, when they accuse the killer, and bring the case before the Areopagus Court.’
Telesilla raised a hand. ‘The district brotherhood?’
Of course, she would have no idea what that was. ‘The men who belong to the same voting tribe and live in the same district as whoever’s been killed. They can swear to the court that the dead man was a true-born Athenian citizen, because he was presented to the brotherhood as a child by his citizen father and has regularly taken part in their rites. These days, they’ll vouch for his mother’s citizen birth as well.’ That was necessary since the city had adopted Pericles’ proposal that the rights and privileges of being an Athenian should be reserved for those born of two Athenian parents.
‘I see.’ She nodded, and exchanged a wide-eyed glance with Hyanthidas.
I didn’t take offence. I know life’s different in Corinth. If a man isn’t born there, he can become a citizen if he simply lives in the city long enough. He passes that status and its obligations on to his sons, no matter who their mother might be. But Corinthians have nowhere near the rights and rewards that are democracy’s gift to Athenians. We safeguard such privilege accordingly.
‘May I?’ Telesilla took the rings from Hyanthidas and examined them.
‘Unless, of course, no one who knew him is much bothered by his untimely fate.’ Thoughtful, I tapped my open hand with the roll of papyrus. ‘That could tell us an interesting story.’
Hyanthidas nodded. ‘We should ask the other poets if anyone knows of any quarrels that could have led to his death.’
Telesilla was passing the dead man’s rings to Zosime. Her hand halted in mid-air. ‘We?’ she asked her beloved. Her tone was guarded.
‘You don’t think I’m letting him do this alone?’ The Corinthian was surprised. He jerked his head towards me. ‘What if he finds himself talking to the killer without realising it? The villain might think he can still escape justice if he knocks Philocles senseless and flees the city.’
Or the murderer might do worse. That had occurred to me as I tried not to remember the gruesome destruction of the dead man’s face. Though I’d been planning on taking Kadous with me.
Zosime’s expression told me she had something to say about this. I decided to change the subject.
‘Whoever he is, the dead man I mean, the city magistrates need to know if this was an attack on him personally, or an attack on the Great Panathenaia.’
‘Or an attack on Melesias – what was his name?’ Hyanthidas asked.
‘Milesias Philaid.’ That possibility hadn’t occurred to me, but the Corinthian was right. Rich men don’t dirty their own hands. They fight their battles with proxies.
‘Aristarchos will be best placed to look into that,’ I said thoughtfully.
Zosime wasn’t going to be distracted. ‘Why does it have to be you asking these questions?’
‘Don’t you think I’ll have a better chance of getting answers? Kallinos is a Scythian and a slave, even if he serves the city. Do you think any citizen family will share their concerns with him? Melesias Philaid could doubtless send his own man to make enquiries, but surely it’s a safe bet that he’d get told whatever people think his rich master wants to hear?’
She narrowed her eyes at me. ‘I think Athenians are too quick to answer a question with a question. Those Ionians were right about that.’ But she turned her attention to the rings as Telesilla handed them over.
Hyanthidas had a more immediately practical observation. ‘It never hurts to do a powerful man like this Melesias a favour, and I still owe Aristarchos a debt of gratitude.’
That was true. He had suggested I consider hiring Hyanthidas after hearing the Corinthian play at a symposium held by one of the city’s other rich and influential men.
‘So where do we start?’ Hyanthidas looked at me. ‘I can’t see anything special about those rings.’
Zosime passed them back to me. ‘Nor can I.’
Since Telesilla echoed them both, I didn’t imagine I’d see anything they had missed. All three were more widely travelled than me. I raised a hand to summon Kadous, who was sitting on a stool mending the fraying rope handle on a bucket. ‘Find me a thong to thread these on, please.’
As he took the rings off me, I unrolled the scroll and pursed my lips. There were a lot of names. ‘I reckon we could start by visiting that tavern we went to last night, to see how many of these poets are drinking there again today.’
Hyanthidas looked at me, dubious. ‘Don’t you think the owner will have barred them after throwing them out?’
‘There wasn’t any real trouble.’ I shrugged. ‘If they’re not there, we can ask him where’s the closest place they’re likely to be drinking. I’d rather tick five or ten names off this list with one visit than spend the evening going from door to door just to be told the man we want isn’t in. We could be walking the streets till midnight.’
Hyanthidas stood up. ‘Fair enough. We have to start somewhe
re.’
‘Don’t you two start drinking with them.’
Zosime’s tone was light, but I could tell she was serious. I bent to kiss her cheek.
‘We won’t. I want to be done with this as soon as I can, so we can enjoy the festival.’
Hyanthidas kissed Telesilla. ‘You’ll be all right here until I get back? Or do you want me to stop by our lodgings, and send Arion to escort you back to the city?’
‘I’ll be fine.’ She waved him away. ‘I’m sure we can find plenty to talk about.’
‘No question,’ Zosime said with a glint in her eye.
I grinned at Hyanthidas. ‘We had better get back as soon as we can.’
Kadous handed me the dead man’s rings knotted on a leather thong, and went to open the gate. I slipped the thong over my head and tucked the rings under my tunic. I tucked the papyrus list through my belt rather than carry it in a sweaty hand and risk the ink smudging or the layers flaking apart. I didn’t bother with a cloak.
The lane outside was quiet. The heat of the day had passed, but local people hadn’t started venturing out. There were still travellers trudging along the main road though.
‘Thanks for doing this,’ I said to Hyanthidas.
I wasn’t only relieved to have his height and broad shoulders backing me, in case we stumbled on this killer. As a Corinthian, Hyanthidas’ word didn’t carry the weight of an Athenian’s under our laws, but he was safe from dangers that would threaten Kadous. If someone disputed my testimony about some event when the Phrygian was at my side? A slave’s evidence is tested under torture.
‘I owe a debt to you as well as to Aristarchos.’ Hyanthidas waved away my protest that he owed me nothing. ‘Besides, I want to make sure that no one muddies these waters by trying to throw suspicion on that Corinthian the Scythians were so eager to find this morning.’ He grinned, but that wasn’t really a joke. It’s always too easy to blame the stranger.