by JM Alvey
I smiled back all the same. ‘That reminds me. I must find time to call on my brothers, and reassure them I’m not in trouble. Hermes only knows what gossip’s reached them by now.’
Hyanthidas laughed, and we walked on towards the city. By the time we passed through the gate, locals and visitors alike were out and about, looking for entertainment and refreshment. It was still hot, the air was sultry, and we had worked up enough of a thirst to make me glad we were heading for a tavern.
We arrived earlier than we had done yesterday. There were still seats to be had inside and out. All the same, I reckoned the owner and his slaves would be having a busy night, judging by the bustle on the streets.
There was a clot of red cloaks sitting around one long table. The greybeard who’d attracted everyone’s attention with his eloquence before taking a piss wasn’t there, but I recognised the barrel-chested Ionian as well as the Athenian who’d tried to be more reasonable than his half-drunk companion. They were sharing a jug of wine, and the gathering looked friendly enough.
I caught a passing slave’s elbow. ‘A quart jug of the black, with five measures of water to two of wine, please, and two cups.’
He nodded. ‘Where are you sitting?’
I gestured at the poets. ‘We’ll be joining them.’
The slave might be a pale-eyed barbarian, but he was no fool. He looked at us warily, and I realised he remembered us from the night before.
‘We don’t want any trouble,’ he warned.
‘Nor do we,’ I assured him.
He soon came back with the wine. Hyanthidas took it as I paid the slave and we made our way to the table. The Athenian looked up, mildly surprised, but his face was amiable enough.
‘Good evening.’ There was a hint of a question in his words.
We’d debated how best to approach them as we’d walked up to the city. We’d devised different schemes, depending on what we found.
Hyanthidas stepped forward and offered the wine jug. ‘May we join you to offer a libation to Athena, and to Apollo?’
‘By all means.’ The Athenian wasn’t going to turn down a free drink, and by the looks of it, nor were the others. From their cheerful unconcern, it was also obvious none of them had any idea that one of their number was dead.
Hyanthidas filled their cups, and introduced himself as the lamplight struck red glints from the dark wine. A couple of the group dragged unoccupied stools over from nearby tables. That was enough of an invitation for us to sit down.
The barrel-chested Ionian addressed Hyanthidas. He had clearly noted my friend’s accent. ‘You’re here for the Great Panathenaia? With some particular interest in seeking Apollo’s favour, or merely honouring your city’s patron?’
The Corinthian smiled. ‘It’s always wise to approach the great god of the lyre with humility before attempting to please the judges in any pipe-playing contest.’
The Ionian laughed. He was as well aware as the rest of us of the bloody fate that befell Marsyas when the satyr challenged the god, determined to prove the pipe’s superiority over the lyre. ‘Very wise. Let us all honour Apollo of the silver bow.’
He raised his cup and let the first sip fall to the floor as an offering. Everyone did the same, echoing his words.
‘And all honour to bright-eyed Athena.’ The Athenian poured a second, careful libation to soak away between the stones cobbling the earth underfoot.
‘May she ever look on us with blessings.’ I glanced in the direction of the Acropolis as I made my offering, and then took a welcome drink. I forced myself not to empty the cup, despite my thirst. I’d have asked for more water with the wine if that was my only concern. The mix I’d asked for was strong enough to loosen a few tongues, without encouraging the poets to get drunk.
The Athenian looked at me. ‘Twin pipe player, or lyre? Singer?’
‘I’m here on behalf of the festival commissioners.’ I pulled the rolled papyrus out of my belt. ‘At Melesias Philaid’s request.’
That got everyone’s attention. They all knew the name of the commissioner who was supervising their performance.
‘My name is Philocles Hestaiou of Alopeke.’ I unrolled the list. ‘May I ask who I have the honour of addressing?’
The Athenian introduced himself first. ‘Antiphon Antidotou of Daidalidai.’
The Ionian followed. ‘Epilykos of Klazomenai.’
As the rest introduced themselves, I found their names on the list and mentally ticked them off. That was nine accounted for out of twenty-four. Not a bad start. I looked up as Antiphon asked the obvious question.
‘How may we help the noble Melesias?’
I tried not to think of Zosime as I replied with another question. ‘Have you seen your fellow performers today? Who can tell me where they’ve been, and when?’
I saw the poets exchanging puzzled looks. Once again, the Athenian spoke first. ‘I saw Kallimedes buying honey cakes in the market just after noon.’
I could see the curiosity in his eyes, as the others chimed in with their recollections of the day’s encounters. I gave up trying to keep everything straight in my mind and dipped a finger in my wine to blur the first letters of each name. By the time the poets were done, I only had seven on my list unaccounted for.
‘What do these men look like?’ I named them one by one.
Antiphon looked thoroughly puzzled by now, but was still willing to oblige. ‘Sadocus is tall and lean, with a look of a startled deer about him.’
The poet couldn’t help adding that dramatic detail, but that didn’t matter. That couldn’t be the dead man. No one would call the corpse lean.
‘And the rest?’
Other voices chimed in around the table.
Epilykos the Ionian was getting impatient. ‘What is this about? We’re not required to present ourselves at the Pnyx until the day after tomorrow.’
A straight question deserved a straight answer. ‘The city’s Scythian slaves found a man in a red cloak dead in an alley just after dawn. We’re trying to find out who he was.’
They stared at me, lost for words as the heedless jollity of the tavern continued around us. I reached into the neck of my tunic and took out the dead man’s rings.
‘Do any of you recognise these?’ I pulled the leather thong over my head and passed it to the Ionian.
He studied the rings for a moment, shook his head, and passed them on. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier to see if one of us recognises this dead man?’ he asked warily.
I met his gaze. ‘His own mother wouldn’t know him. His injuries are too grievous.’
A shudder of horror ran through the poets like a breeze through a field of scarlet poppies.
‘What—?’ Epilykos broke off as he decided he’d rather not know any more.
That suited me. I was on the lookout for any sign that someone knew how viciously the dead man had been attacked.
‘How do you know this unfortunate is one of us?’ Antiphon wanted to deny this awful event, rather than distance himself from suspicion of guilt.
‘He wore a red cloak, and not just any red cloak.’ I gestured at the woven wool draping the Athenian’s shoulder. ‘It could have come from the same loom as your own. He carried an epic performer’s staff.’
Now that we were sitting with the poets, I could see their cloaks for the upcoming performance were all new. If the cloth hadn’t been woven by the same hands, it had surely passed through the same dye vat; once, twice and a third time to gain that rich, deep colour.
‘Excuse me.’ On the far side of the long table, a younger man’s voice shook. ‘I believe this gold ring belongs to Daimachos of Leuktra.’
His hand trembled as he passed the rings on the thong to the next man, an Aetolian. After a moment of shock, that grizzled poet studied the gold circle as best he could in the lamplight.
He bit his lip before nodding reluctantly. ‘It could well be. Yes, I think it probably is his.’
Leuktra is a Boeotian town and Daimachos
was a Boeotian name. I checked my list and saw he was one of the poets no one had seen today. I looked at Antiphon. ‘Was he the loudmouth who was making himself unpopular last night? Saying it’s Athenian tyranny for the festival commissioners to insist you use copies of the same scrolls relating Homer’s poems?’
He looked at me, startled. ‘How do you know about that?’
‘I know more than you think.’ That had been my mother’s tactic, when she wanted to lure me and my brothers into confessing our part in some mischief. I saw no reason not to use her methods here. ‘Well? Was that him? Is that his name?’
‘Yes, but—’ Antiphon looked at the other poets for support. ‘That was just Daimachos talking out of his arse. We all know what he’s like when he’s drunk. He’s obnoxious, but he’s harmless.’
No one seemed much inclined to agree with him.
‘Where did he go after you were thrown out of here?’
‘No idea.’ The grizzled Aetolian scowled. ‘I told him to fuck off and drink by himself since he’d ruined everyone’s evening.’
‘He went off on his own,’ the younger poet confirmed. ‘The rest of us found another tavern.’
‘Has anyone seen him today?’ I looked around the table.
Shaking heads and grimaces answered me. Well, it was easy to believe the Boeotian had no friends.
Antiphon was still refusing to believe this. ‘He’ll be in his lodgings, wine-sick. Either that or he’s had a bellyful of arguing and is drinking in peace elsewhere.’
‘That’d be a first,’ someone muttered.
That was a possibility, however unlikely I thought it. ‘We’ll visit his lodgings when we leave here. If Daimachos is still alive, we’ll find him.’
‘If he is dead, it has to be a robbery.’ Antiphon was searching for another explanation, like a hunting hound casting around for a lost scent. ‘These things happen when the city’s full of strangers.’
The Ionian scowled. ‘How many street thieves would leave those rings behind?’
‘Maybe the dead man was the thief,’ Antiphon countered. ‘He took Daimachos’ rings and cloak, and then some other thief killed him?’
‘And left his plunder behind?’ Epilykos shook his head, scornful. ‘Anyway, if Daimachos was left senseless in the street, why didn’t the city’s slaves sweep him up with the other trash?’
‘Where’s your friend?’ I asked the Athenian. ‘The one who took such offence at what this Boeotian was saying?’
‘Simonides? He’s at home with his family.’ He looked horrified. ‘You can’t think he would kill a man over something like this?’
‘I don’t know.’ I was still watching him closely. ‘I know a man was beaten to death.’ I switched my gaze to the Ionian. ‘Epilykos? Where’s your companion who had so much to say for himself last night?’
‘Hermotimos?’ He nodded at the list in my hand. ‘He drank enough to spend this morning looking at the bottom of a bucket. He couldn’t have killed a louse any time before noon, still less taken on a cockroach like Daimachos.’
So he wasn’t going to mourn the dead Boeotian. Even so, he had already exonerated the other two Ionians before he knew there was any crime to answer for.
The other poets spoke over each other, protesting their innocence and offering me witnesses to prove it. Several defended men who weren’t here in the tavern with equal vehemence. They got louder and louder, and I couldn’t have kept everything straight even if I’d had pen and ink with me. I looked hastily around for the tavern keeper, and saw him looking towards us, perplexed.
I stood up and clapped my hands, to shut them up before he came over to throw us out. ‘Let me see your feet. Everyone, right now.’
That silenced them all. They stared at me, bemused.
‘Why—?’ Antiphon began.
Epilykos cut him off. ‘“Why” doesn’t matter.’
Throwing back a fold of his red cloak, he stood up and came to stand in front of me. ‘Well?’
I took a lamp from the table to give me some better light. As I bent over to study his feet, I was careful not to drip oil from the lamp onto his toes. Epilykos’ sandals were old, creased and comfortable. While they were stained, those were the long-dried marks of walking through puddles, not recent splashes of blood. My family’s business is leather-working, so I’ve seen enough worn-out footwear to last me a lifetime.
This had occurred to me as we’d walked through the city. A man might readily get rid of a bloody tunic that could so obviously incriminate him, but even a killer would be more reluctant to discard his footwear. Sandals aren’t so quickly replaced, certainly not without someone noticing. Add to that, none of these poets had had any reason to imagine they would be suspected of killing Daimachos when they’d set out for this tavern earlier. They’d have no reason to change their shoes.
‘Thank you.’ I looked up and saw that the Ionian realised I was looking for some indication that he’d been in the alley where Daimachos the Boeotian had died. There are enough descriptions of blood going everywhere after a death in the Iliad, after all. Thankfully he was also astute enough not to say anything out loud. I looked past him. ‘Who’s next?’
Antiphon the Athenian stood up. ‘If we must.’
Whether some of them had worked out what I was looking for, or they were just following their elders’ lead, the assembled poets presented their feet for inspection one by one. I saw nothing that could be cause for suspicion. A couple were wearing new sandals, but the unstained leather was already shaping itself to their owners’ feet as well as rubbing a couple of new callouses. Those were recent purchases in preparation for the festival, not hastily bought or stolen today to replace footwear sodden with blood.
As the last puzzled poet returned to his stool, I stood up. ‘Thank you on behalf of Melesias Philaid.’
I took a breath, trying to decide what to say next. The young poet who’d identified Daimachos’ rings saved me the trouble. His strangled gasp of horror got everyone’s attention.
‘Who’s going to give us the gods going to war?’
‘Oh Hades!’ Antiphon pressed a hand to his mouth, wide-eyed.
‘Kalliope help us.’ Epilykos poured a hasty libation to the epic muse. He looked at me, aghast. ‘Has Melesias Philaid said anything to you?’
After a moment’s incomprehension, I realised what they were talking about. These men might be rivals, but at the Great Panathenaia they were working together. Every episode of the Iliad had its allotted performer. If Daimachos was dead, and I didn’t much doubt he was the corpse by now, that left a gaping hole in their roster. A fallen man in a hoplite shield wall couldn’t be a greater disaster.
Epilykos broke the silence. His eyes were distant and his voice was soft. ‘I saw him give the battle at the ships once, at the Daedala in Plataea.’
Antiphon nodded. ‘Did anyone else ever see his Diomedes’ assault on the gods?’
The answering murmurs were fervent with admiration.
Someone spoke up from the end of the table. ‘He wasn’t only a master of the dramas. I saw him give the appeals to Achilles in Delos last year. He could drop his voice to a murmur and have everyone straining to hear.’
That recollection prompted sorrowful grimaces on several faces. Now the dead man was truly mourned. As silence fell around the table a second time, I realised every poet was looking at me, grimly expectant.
I did my best to look confident and composed. ‘Melesias Philaid will send word tomorrow morning, once we are certain that this unfortunate is indeed Daimachos. Good evening to you.’
I had no idea what was going to happen to address the poets’ concerns about the performance, but that was the festival commissioner’s problem, not mine. Hyanthidas was already on his feet, and we walked briskly away before anyone could ask any awkward questions.
Outside, we paused briefly in the mouth of an alley, out of the way of passers-by.
‘Where to?’ Hyanthidas glanced back at the tavern, on watch
for anyone following us.
‘Did you see anything suspicious?’ We’d agreed our tactics before we went in there. I would do the talking while Hyanthidas watched the poets, in case any man’s expression betrayed him.
‘No.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I honestly don’t think any of them did it. This isn’t only a competition for them. The performance is an offering to Athena. I can’t see any poet profaning that. Can you?’
‘No.’ I agreed, and not only because of that. I spend a lot of my time around actors. If any of those poets had been feigning their shock as they realised what Daimachos’ death meant for the festival, they were devoting themselves to the wrong art. It wasn’t even as if they’d had masks to hide behind.
‘He certainly wasn’t popular, as a man I mean, even if he was such a skilled performer.’ Hyanthidas shook his head. ‘I’ll never understand why bastards like that are given so much leeway just because of their talent.’
‘Me neither.’ Though I’d seen something of the same attitude in theatre circles. ‘But I reckon that’s where our answer lies.’
‘How do you mean?’
I gestured at the tavern. ‘There were any number of Athenians in there last night, drunk enough to be full of fight, and more than ready to take offence when Daimachos insulted our city. They wouldn’t know or care that he was blessed by the muses when he performed. I reckon one of them followed him after he was thrown out. They may have just intended to have words with him, but you saw what he was like. He said something else, something worse, and whoever was challenging him lost their temper. They decided to shut him up once and for all.’
Hyanthidas nodded slowly. ‘And now they’ve sobered up, no one will ever know what they did, as long as they keep their mouth shut.’
‘They may even be telling themselves they were defending Athena’s honour.’ That was a question I would leave to the goddess. We had one last task before we could put this sorry business behind us. ‘We should still make sure Daimachos isn’t sleeping off too many jugs of wine though, before we tell Aristarchos. If we can’t find the Boeotian, he can notify the Polemarch tomorrow.’ The magistrate would know which wealthy Athenian served as the Visitor’s Advocate for the town of Leuktra.