Justice for Athena

by JM Alvey

  ‘Where’s he supposed to be lodging?’ Hyanthidas looked back at the tavern door and the basket of torches on offer. ‘Shall I get a light so you can see your list?’

  ‘No need.’ I’d committed the details to memory when I had enough lamplight to read inside. ‘Let’s get this over and done with.’

  Chapter Five

  My feet were getting tired by the time we reached the street we were seeking below the Hill of the Muses. Thankfully, there was a lamp at the gate of the house where Daimachos had been renting a room. I heard lively conversation in the courtyard, and when we knocked, a scrawny slave opened up promptly.

  ‘Oh.’ He was surprised to see us.

  Looking over his head, I could see men gathered around a table looking at us with owlish curiosity. They were well supplied with jugs of wine, and I guessed they’d started drinking early.

  ‘Is Daimachos of Leuktra here?’ I asked the slave.

  He looked at me blankly, then shook his head.

  ‘Has he been here at all today?’

  The boy answered with another head shake.

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  The slave stared at me for a long moment, clearly uncertain what to say. Exasperated, I looked past him and raised my voice.

  ‘Who is the householder here?’

  ‘I am.’ A burly man rose from his stool. If he’d been drinking as long as the rest, he showed no signs of being the worse for it. ‘What’s your business with me?’

  Since he didn’t introduce himself, I saw no reason to give him my name. ‘We’re here on the festival commissioners’ behalf. Have you seen Daimachos of Leuktra today?’

  ‘No. He never came back last night, but that’s no business of mine.’

  The man looked wary. I guessed he had some reason to avoid dealings with the city’s officials.

  I squared my shoulders and summoned the authority of my friend Menekles playing Agamemnon on stage. ‘Show us his room.’

  The man hesitated.

  ‘Now,’ I ordered sternly.

  The man capitulated, which was a relief as I had absolutely no idea what to do if he refused.

  The householder took a lamp from the table and led us to a small chamber tucked away at the back. He threw the door open with a grunt. ‘See for yourself.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I took the lamp from him. ‘Don’t let us keep you from your friends.’

  Hyanthidas followed me and stopped oppressively close to the man. The Corinthian’s height would make most people step back, but the householder wasn’t about to take a hint. ‘So what’s happened to him?’

  ‘He’s been attacked,’ I said unemotionally.

  The man laughed without any hint of sympathy. ‘Picked the wrong whore, did he? One with a partner waiting to take his purse while she was bent over and taking his prick? Serves him right.’

  I didn’t dignify that with a reply as I looked around the small room. The householder’s theory wasn’t worth considering. No prostitute or pimp would have left Daimachos’ body with those rings still on his fingers.

  The man hovered in the doorway as we surveyed the room. There was a bed with a blanket neatly smoothed and tucked, and a stool which I guessed belonged to the house. Thankfully the chamberpot had been emptied and rinsed so there was no stink from that. Two tunics were folded on the stool, and a basket beside it held a collection of scrolls and personal oddments. I saw a comb, a pen box and some lidded pots secured with knotted twine. Those must be the dead man’s possessions, along with a travelling cloak hung on a peg.

  I took that down and draped it over my arm. ‘We’ll take his property to the Polemarch.’ I wasn’t asking permission.

  The householder scowled. ‘How do I know—?’

  ‘Or we can come back at first light tomorrow with a couple of Scythians.’ I held his gaze until he looked away.

  I spread the cloak on the bed and made a neat bundle of Daimachos’ things. As Hyanthidas stepped forward to take it, the householder tried again.

  ‘He owes me money, you know.’

  ‘Take it up with the Leuktra Visitor’s Advocate.’ I nodded at Hyanthidas, who picked up the bundle.

  We left the room, and this time, the householder stepped back to let us pass. I handed him the lamp as we headed for the gate. The gathering in the courtyard fell silent, watching us as the scrawny slave hurried to let us out.

  ‘If no one pays me, I’ll rent that room to somebody else,’ the man called after us.

  I didn’t bother answering. We walked to the end of the street before I spoke to Hyanthidas. ‘Thanks for following my lead in there.’

  ‘I didn’t think we needed questions about why a Corinthian might be working for the Polemarch.’ His faint amusement faded away. ‘I didn’t see any sign that anyone there knows what’s happened to Daimachos.’

  ‘Me neither,’ I agreed. ‘I’m starting to think we will never find out.’

  I only hoped Athena, Zeus and the Furies were watching. I wanted them to see that I had done what I could for the dead man’s sake. Daimachos might have been an unpleasant loudmouth, but that wasn’t the point. We have a duty to the unjustly dead, however obnoxious they may have been.

  Hyanthidas sighed as he hefted the cloak-wrapped bundle onto his other shoulder. ‘This doesn’t seem much to show for a life.’

  ‘He may have some property and family in Leuktra.’

  ‘Do you think we’ll find something to tell us in this lot?’

  ‘I think if we’d left his stuff there, everything in that room would have been gone before morning,’ I said frankly. ‘There might be some keepsake that his family want back.’

  Hyanthidas grunted. ‘I wonder if they’ll be sorry or sad to learn he’s not coming home.’

  I shrugged. ‘Some men show very different faces to their loved ones. My brother Nymenios is ruthless when it comes to business, but he can be as giddy as a pup chasing its tail when he’s playing with his children.’

  Hyanthidas shifted the bundle to settle it more comfortably. ‘Where are we taking this? To the Scythians at the city jail?’

  I thought about that as we walked on. ‘Let’s go and see Aristarchos and tell him what we’ve found out. He can decide whether to pass those things on to the Leuktra Visitor’s Advocate or to the festival commissioners, when he sends them word in the morning.’

  Either way, the matter would be out of my hands. I walked more quickly. ‘We’ll do that and then head home. Kadous will be cooking dinner by now. Will you stay the night when we’ve eaten? You’re very welcome.’

  ‘If Telesilla wants to,’ he said amiably. ‘We should make a quick stop to tell Arion though.’

  ‘Of course.’

  We went on through the busy city. Even the street where our one-time patron lived was loud with voices and laughter rising behind the tall walls as we passed the large and luxurious houses. I knocked at Aristarchos’ gate. The slave guarding the entrance slid the wooden panel back from the grille that lets him see who’s outside. Mus is always cautious, even though he’s tall and broad enough to make Hyanthidas look stunted and underfed.

  He looked surprised to see me. ‘Ambrakis found you so soon?’

  Now I was puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

  Before the barbarian could answer me, as he opened the gate to let us in, another figure appeared. I couldn’t make out who that was. All I saw was a dark shadow against the lamplight in the outer of the spacious house’s two courtyards. Then he stepped into the light of the lamp by the gate.

  ‘Kallinos?’

  He didn’t waste time with questions. ‘Another epic poet has been killed.’

  I stared at the Scythian, appalled. ‘Who? When? How?’ The questions were out before I remembered my part in this business was over.

  Kallinos answered before it could occur to him that I had no authority to ask. ‘Hermaios Metrobiou of Keiriadai. He was found just after dusk, not far from the agora. He hadn’t been there long. The body wa
s still warm and limp.’

  ‘You could put a name to him so quickly?’ I was surprised.

  ‘He still had his face and I knew who he was. I’ve seen him perform before now.’ Kallinos’ answer was coloured with a hint of justified rebuke.

  I nodded to accept that rap on my knuckles. Slaves are entitled to enjoy the epics as much as anyone else.

  ‘There’s no possibility this could be a robbery?’ I was ready to seize the flimsiest hope. I wanted to be done with these horrors.

  The slave shook his head. ‘He still had his purse and rings, just like Daimachos. He was stabbed, but this was no swift killing.’

  I had no idea what he meant by that and the Scythian’s grim face was making me horribly uneasy. Before I could think how to make our farewells and leave, Kallinos had questions of his own.

  ‘What have you learned about this morning’s dead man?’

  ‘His name was Daimachos of Leuktra. Two of the other epic poets recognised these rings as his. He left the tavern where they had been drinking on his own last night, and no one has seen him since yesterday evening.’

  I drew the thong with the rings over my head and offered it to the Scythian, before nodding at the bundle Hyanthidas was holding. ‘We went to his lodgings to make sure he wasn’t sleeping off a bellyful of wine. No one there’s seen him either. We brought his possessions away for safe keeping.’

  ‘Before scavengers picked the room clean.’ The Corinthian offered the cloak and its contents to Mus, but the Scythian took it instead.

  ‘The master wishes to see you.’ The big barbarian still has the accent of his remote homeland, and that’s as thick as strong cheese, but no Hellene could fault his fluency with our language.

  That didn’t mean I understood what he meant. ‘Me? Why?’

  But Kallinos was already striding away towards the inner courtyard, carrying the bundle holding the remnants of Daimachos’ life.

  ‘I’ll be off,’ Hyanthidas said quickly. ‘If an Athenian’s been killed, this is no business of mine. I’ll head back to Alopeke. Someone needs to let Zosime know what’s going on. I’ll tell her you’ll be back later.’

  I couldn’t argue with any of that, and besides, I hadn’t forgotten that my friend was here to compete in the Great Panathenaia. He deserved to spend tomorrow practising with his twin pipes, not hunting killers.

  ‘Give Zosime my love, and say I’m sorry. Tell her I’ll be home as soon as I can.’

  ‘I will,’ Hyanthidas assured me.

  I watched Mus close the gate behind him. The big slave picked looked at me expectantly.

  I realised something. There were lights behind the shutters of the upper-storey rooms around this outer courtyard, and the muted hum of quiet conversation, but there was nowhere near the noise I’d heard as we’d passed other houses. ‘I thought your master was expecting visitors.’

  ‘They’ll arrive in the morning.’ Mus grinned. ‘The mistress is satisfied that everything is ready, so we can take the evening to relax.’

  Everyone except me, apparently. But I supposed that explained why Aristarchos wanted to see me now, if he was going to be busy tomorrow.

  I headed across the paving towards the archway. All four sides of the inner courtyard were sheltered by porches furnished with benches and stools, and a door stood open in one corner, spilling lamplight into the night. Kallinos stood there, beckoning impatiently. I walked over, trying not to show my curiosity.

  I’d never been into Aristarchos’ private dining room before. There is a larger room for entertaining off the outer courtyard, where I had dined a couple of times, and where I’d seen his older sons welcoming their well-born friends. This inner room was the master of the house’s domain though, and no one entered without his personal invitation. As such, the room reflected Aristarchos’ noble and ancient heritage, his good taste, and the substantial income from the family’s properties spread across Attica.

  The floor was an intricate mosaic of oval leaves arrayed in interlocking circles of russet and dark grey on a background as pale as sand. Lampstands in all four corners showed me the walls were exquisitely painted to give the impression of walking into a countryside bower of fig trees that overlooked sheep-filled pastures on one side and fields of grain on the other. The choice of those particular trees was no mere artistic flourish. Aristarchos is a Phytalid, descended from Phytalos who gratefully received the very first fig sapling from divine Demeter.

  The ledges around the walls were furnished with luxuriously cushioned dining couches where men of equally impressive lineage would recline to eat and drink and discuss the concerns of those who identify themselves with a clan name. The rest of us simply honour our father and the place where we live, not least because we only have one place to live.

  No one was reclining and relaxing tonight. There were two round tray-tables set on three-legged stands in the centre of the room. One held a jug of wine, several cups and a bowl of olives, as well as a basket of bread and a plate of sliced dark meat and salad leaves, Everything looked untouched. I guessed the guest this had been provided for was the man pacing up and down the room.

  ‘But if he gives us Hera’s seduction of Zeus, then Tellias could give us the gods going to war.’ He ran a distracted hand through his mop of greying curls as he looked desperately around, as if he expected some solution to his problems to appear in those painted scenes.

  The man was old enough to be my father, wearing a plain wool tunic and with a single ring on one hand. That was a carved onyx seal, for use rather than ostentation. He had the thick waist and soft jawline beneath his beard of someone who spends his days at his leisure rather than busy in a workshop. I guessed he didn’t spend much time at the Academy or the Lyceum’s training grounds either.

  ‘But Tellias is expecting to give us Zeus’ seduction by Hera, and if you ask Nikeratos instead, who takes on the Trojans at the wall?’ Aristarchos was sitting at the other table. There was a basket of scrolls on the floor beside his stool and he was studying one spread out before him. His personal slave, Lydis, was standing behind him. He looked up as I came further into the room. Kallinos stayed standing by the door.

  Aristarchos picked up his own cup and gestured at the table holding the wine and the food. ‘Philocles, please help yourself. Lydis, I’ll take a little more wine, thank you. Melesias, are you sure you won’t have some refreshment?’

  As the lithe slave stepped forward, the other man stopped pacing. With his jaw slack, he looked at me as if he had no idea where he was or why.

  Aristarchos’ smile came and went so swiftly I could have told myself I had imagined it. ‘Melesias Philaid, may I present Philocles Hestaiou of Alopeke.’

  ‘The playwright?’ Melesias forced a courteous nod. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you. I thought The Hounds was a very entertaining piece. I particularly liked the debate over the best way to hunt rats and mice. A fine way to make the point that different tasks need different skills, and that new arrivals need not be seen as a threat.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I could see he was making an effort to be polite, but there was no doubt that he’d been paying attention to my play. I took the cup of amber wine that Lydis offered me, and found it a light and fragrant mix.

  ‘Melesias is a great supporter of the arts,’ Aristarchos commented. ‘Most particularly of poets.’

  That explained why he’d been put in charge of organising the Homeric performances, out of all the festival commissioners chosen by the gods in the lottery. The muses had definitely tipped the scales there.

  Distress creased the plump man’s amiable face. ‘The Iliad. I have spent so long—’

  He couldn’t go on, and I couldn’t blame him. Writing a play for the Dionysia had dominated my life for the months between the honour of selection to the day of the competition. A commissioner for the Great Panathenaia serves a four-year term, from the first morning after one festival has ended to the triumphant conclusion of the next. They have to. There’s so much to
do and get done. Now, after so much time and effort freely spent in Athena’s service, Melesias was facing a disaster that would be the talk of every Hellenic city from beyond the Pillars of Hercules to those facing the Persians across the rivers of the east. He didn’t deserve that, and not just because he’d said nice things about my play.

  ‘What have you learned?’ Aristarchos asked me.

  I explained why I believed this morning’s dead man was Daimachos of Leuktra. When I said I had retrieved his property, Kallinos stepped forward to take the thong with the rings from me and tuck it inside the bundled cloak.

  ‘I have your list.’ I took the creased and blotted parchment from my belt. Aristarchos nodded and Lydis took it from me. The slave’s lips quirked as he saw what I had done with it.

  ‘There are only six others unaccounted for, and from the way they were described, Daimachos has the greatest resemblance.’

  Melesias nodded, grimacing. ‘It must be him. I thought it could be. The dead man was of the right stature and looked to be of the same age.’

  Even in the lamplight, I could see that he had gone pale. If he’d seen the corpse, it wasn’t surprising that he had no great appetite for food. I found I wasn’t as hungry as I’d thought either, after an unbidden recollection of Daimachos’ smashed head.

  ‘Kallinos said there has been a second killing?’ I braced myself for more stomach-churning news.

  ‘Hermaios Metrobiou.’ Melesias’ voice rose with anguish as he started pacing again. ‘He was to give us his rendition of Priam’s appeal to Achilles. That concludes the entire performance. People don’t appreciate that it’s such a demanding episode. Think of it though. The poet stands alone before the audience so late on the third day. He has to hold their attention, to command their emotions, after they have been caught up in the highest of high drama for so long. Few poets are equal to such a challenge. Hermaios’ approach was going to be truly masterful. We discussed it only the other day. For him to die, and so violently, leaving his loved ones and his friends bereft…’