Justice for Athena

by JM Alvey

  I waited for Apollonides to get over his shock, and helped myself to some food. ‘What can you tell me about Hermaios? How old was he?’

  After a moment’s thought, he answered me. ‘The same age as us, maybe a year or so older. Not much past his thirtieth year, anyway. He was a talented performer, very good indeed. He could stir an audience with any of the epics, but his Homer was particularly fine. Given time, he could have been truly great.’

  ‘Did anyone resent that?’ I remembered the poets in the tavern had been ready to overlook Daimachos’ obnoxious personality for the sake of his skills. Perhaps that dreadful assault on the Boeotian’s face had stemmed from professional jealousy. Though that didn’t explain Hermaios’ broken fingers. That would only make sense if he’d been a pipe player or strummed the lyre.

  Regardless, I remembered what Aristarchos had said. Any number of poets would be eager to step into these dead men’s shoes. Could one of them have decided to take matters into his own hands and create a vacancy?

  ‘Was anyone in particular jealous that he’d been invited to perform at the Great Panathenaia?’

  ‘Not that I heard. As far as I’m aware, everyone agreed he deserved the honour. He was very well liked.’ Apollonides gazed across the courtyard, his eyes distant as he chewed.

  If Hermaios hadn’t been a man to make enemies, surely that made it less likely that these killings stemmed from separate grudges. But what could drive a man to kill two poets so brutally, and on the same day? I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Everything I learned made this labyrinth more convoluted.

  ‘Will you come with me to pay our respects to Hermaios’ family? To see if we can learn anything that might help find his killer?’ I felt like a carrion crow hovering over the dead man, but I hadn’t forgotten the errand that had brought me here.

  ‘Now, you mean?’ Apollonides looked at me dubiously. ‘They’ll be laying out the body today.’

  ‘Better today than tomorrow, while the family’s receiving everyone who wants to say their farewells.’ I couldn’t see how I could start asking questions then without causing even more offence. The funeral the day after would be even less appropriate. ‘If we’re going to see justice done, we can’t let this trail go cold. Remember Corinth?’

  Apollonides had been with us as we struggled to solve a murder there. He heaved a sigh and got to his feet. ‘Yes, of course. Let’s go.’

  We headed for the Piraeus Gate. Keiriadai lay outside the city walls, but it wasn’t too far to Hermaios’ home. That was a relief after all the walking I’d done yesterday. At least my detour to recruit Apollonides meant the household was already busy when we arrived. As we approached the open gate, a grim-faced elder was overseeing the delivery of a substantial quantity of wine. That had doubtless been ordered for the festival. Now it would be poured out for a funeral.

  My stomach hollowed. If Apollonides hadn’t been with me, I’d have turned tail. I had no place here. This grief-filled day was very far from the festival eve this family had been expecting to share with friends and relatives. This Great Panathenaia would mean nothing to them now, and every city festival that followed would be soured by the annual reminder of their bereavement. Not a loss from old age or disease, which are inescapable facts of life, but an inexplicable, brutal death at the hand of a violent man.

  I drew a deep, steadying breath, and addressed the man politely. It was impossible to tell from his dress if he was slave or citizen and, in any case, the whole household was mourning, so that warranted every courtesy.

  ‘Good day to you. May we speak to…’ Horribly embarrassed, I looked at Apollonides. I should have asked who was head of this household before we got here.

  ‘Timon Metrobiou. We won’t take up much of his time,’ Apollonides said quickly.

  The elder summoned an underling with a snap of his fingers, and waved us through the gate. From his expression I guessed his grief was too raw for speech.

  We followed the slave towards the porch in front of the house. Here outside the city walls, the house and the courtyard were more spacious. That was a good thing as there was already quite a gathering. Men whom I guessed were neighbours carried baskets of gifts of food for the mourners who would soon gather. Their wives and daughters wore shawls hiding their hair as they clustered around the door to the room where I guessed the household’s women would lay out the dead man’s body. Perhaps the corpse was already there. I didn’t know and I wasn’t going to ask. I didn’t need to see another brutally murdered poet.

  There was no indication that this was a workshop as well as a residence, so I couldn’t tell what the family business might be. Could that possibly be relevant? I had no idea, though I was starting to realise I couldn’t let every stray thought distract me. I’d end up like Tychos, the floppy-eared hunting dog Apollonides had played in The Hounds. Making full use of the stage crane, the scenery and his own acrobatic talent, he had gone haring after every cat that crossed his path. He ended up catching none of them. I had to concentrate on one thing at a time.

  The young slave plucked at the elbow of a man in his prime who was deep in conversation with two sorrowing friends. After a brief exchange, he headed towards us.

  ‘That’s Timon, Hermaios’ brother,’ Apollonides said in an undertone.

  The man’s expression was strained. ‘How may I help you?’

  I was glad I’d taken Zosime’s advice not to come here alone. Me and Apollonides together had the air of an embassy. While we’d been waiting, I’d decided that’s what we were. I’d also remembered what Zosime had said about Aristarchos having no real tie to the dead man.

  ‘Good day to you. We are here on behalf of Melesias Philaid. He is distressed beyond words by news of your brother’s death.’ All that was true, more or less.

  ‘Thank you. Please – please return my thanks, and my compliments.’

  As the man struggled for words, I could see that the sorrow of a well-born man he’d most likely never met meant little or nothing to him in his bereavement.

  ‘My deepest sympathies for your loss,’ I said sincerely. ‘Please, we don’t want to detain you, when you have so much to arrange.’

  ‘Indeed. Well, good day to you.’ Timon nodded and returned to his friends. He wasn’t being rude: he simply had no meaningless courtesy to spare for strangers.

  So much for finding out what he knew. Still, we were in, and no one had asked us to leave. I tried to work out what I should ask first, and how, and who, without causing unintended offence. Pursuing the dead man’s killer was a family obligation and these people would know I was not kin.

  As I looked around the courtyard as discreetly as I could, I saw Apollonides looking at me with an ‘I told you so’ expression.

  ‘I hardly think he wants to discuss who might have killed his brother,’ I conceded. ‘But we should see what we can learn before we go.’

  Apollonides still looked unconvinced, but he nodded. ‘We can stay just for a little while.’

  He headed towards the far end of the porch, well away from Timon. I strolled over to a knot of sombre men by the gate.

  ‘A bad business this.’ I didn’t have to feign my concern.

  ‘Dreadful,’ the first man agreed.

  ‘The city is full of strangers.’ The man beside him shook his head. ‘Where were the Scythians?’ another demanded, belligerent in his fear. ‘Are we all to be knifed for our purses?’

  So these men knew how Hermaios had died. I wondered who had told them. Then I realised the wound would be obvious as soon as the brother saw the body to confirm the dead man’s name. Word would have spread fast.

  ‘Must it have been a stranger?’ I asked as casually as I could. ‘It’s a rare man who has no enemies at all.’

  The neighbours stared at me with utter incomprehension. After an uncomfortably tense moment, I realised that was the only answer I was going to get.

  ‘Excuse me.’ I quickly moved on to two men who had only just arrived,
as they stood watching and waiting for the right moment to approach Timon Metrobiou.

  ‘A sad day.’ I shook my head. ‘Though it must be some comfort to his family to know Hermaios was so well regarded.’

  The first man looked at me, incredulous. ‘You think there’s any consolation to be had here?’

  I couldn’t argue with that, but I persevered, addressing the second man. ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever heard anyone say a bad word about him.’ I left the merest hint of a question hanging in the air.

  ‘You won’t,’ the man said curtly. ‘He was as well-loved as he was admired.’

  ‘With good reason.’ The first man scowled at me.

  For one awful moment, I thought they were going to start asking me what right I had to be asking questions. Instead, they exchanged an offended glance and stalked away.

  I felt humiliation redden my cheeks. I drew a deep breath and told myself that was no reason to give up. I was here at the behest of the gods as well as doing a service for two of Athens’ most influential men. Another trio, two elders and a youth, were leaving the porch after delivering their burdens. As I approached them, I tried for a friendly smile that was nevertheless suitable for such a sad occasion.

  ‘A tragic loss,’ I began.

  ‘Indeed.’ The first man walked straight past me without slowing, and his companions kept pace as precisely as hoplites in a phalanx.

  I looked around for Apollonides, and wondered if he was having any more success than me. Instead I saw a young man striding towards me with grim purpose on his face.

  He was tall and muscled like a runner, with long hair flowing in tangled curls and no beard to speak of as yet. I guessed he was probably starting his final year of studies guided by the tutors at the Academy or the Lyceum. Then he would be summoned for his hoplite training, when those fetching curls would be cropped and his two years military service to the city would follow. Fit as he was, he’d find that no great challenge. His pace quickened as he realised I’d seen him. From his red and swollen eyes, he was clearly grieving, but I had a nasty feeling that wouldn’t stop him challenging me. Quite the contrary. He’d welcome an outlet for his storm of emotions. I remembered getting horribly drunk and starting more than one pointless fight after my father died. I stood my ground. If I ran, he would only pursue me.

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded as he came within arm’s length. ‘Why are you trying to blacken a good man’s name before he’s even buried?’

  His voice broke on a sob, but his glare said he’d like to break my jaw. We were the centre of attention now, and I could see no one was going to step in if this young hero decided to thrash me for whatever offence he decided I’d committed.

  ‘I am here on behalf of Melesias Philaid,’ I said quickly. ‘The festival commissioners are looking for any explanation that might bring Hermaios’ killer to face justice.’

  Apollonides hurried up. ‘It’s Ikesios, isn’t it? Ikesios Menexonou?’

  So the youth wasn’t one of the dead man’s brothers. I breathed a little easier.

  Being addressed by name distracted my opponent. He stared blankly at the actor. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Apollonides Simou of Kollytos.’ He ushered us towards the gate. ‘Why don’t we find a tavern and share a jug of wine?’

  The young man was too bemused to resist, and I wasn’t about to object as the actor bustled us out of the gate. As we left the house and its mourners behind us, Apollonides looked up and down the street.

  ‘I think there’s a decent tavern along that way.’

  ‘I’m going nowhere with you.’ Ikesios halted, stubborn as a mule. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘As I said, I’m here on behalf of Melesias Philaid, the festival commissioner.’ I explained the errand that had brought us to Hermaios’ family home as swiftly and simply as I could. I didn’t complicate matters by mentioning Daimachos’ murder. That could wait.

  Apollonides chipped in. ‘Is there any way you could help us?’

  I could see that my friend had some reason to think the boy might know something. I had no idea why, but I was willing to trust the actor.

  ‘How?’ The youth’s eyes filled with fresh tears, but his voice was steady.

  I cleared my throat. ‘First and foremost, we need to learn if Hermaios had any enemies. We never sought to intrude, but the longer we delay, the more time his killer will have to escape justice.’

  ‘Will you tell us what you know, so we need not disturb the others who are grieving?’ Apollonides asked.

  ‘I see. Yes.’ Ikesios sniffed and wiped his eyes with the back of a hand. ‘There is a decent tavern this way.’

  We began walking. I tried to find a way to start a conversation that wouldn’t seem unforgivably insensitive. After we’d gone a short distance, Ikesios saved me the trouble.

  ‘What happened? Where was he killed? When did he die?’

  I would leave the brutal answer to that first question for as long as I could. ‘He was found at dusk on the hillside beneath the Temple of Hephaistos. When did you last see him?’

  Ikesios answered readily enough. ‘We had lunch in a tavern in Melite. There were a handful of us there.’

  I could see it hadn’t occurred to him that he might be suspected of having any hand in the killing. ‘A gathering of poets competing in the festival?’

  He shook his head. ‘Only Hermaios has – had – that honour.’ His voice roughened with emotion. ‘The others were musicians, though none are competing this year.’

  ‘Was there any trouble? Any harsh words?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Ikesios was adamant. ‘We were looking forward to the festival, and to seeing Hermaios triumph. We went our separate ways when we left, some time in the mid-afternoon. I’d promised my father I’d be home to welcome my cousins from Eleusis.’ His voice cracked. ‘I had to get back to Piraeus.’

  It would be easy enough to prove that the boy couldn’t have been involved, if he’d been seen heading out of the city, or if someone could swear he was down in Piraeus any time around dusk. Kallinos had said Hermaios hadn’t died quickly, and he’d been found soon after he was murdered. I decided the Scythians could make those enquiries with the Polemarch’s authority to back them.

  ‘You’re sure there was no other trouble, even if it didn’t involve you?’ I persisted. ‘No one waiting outside the tavern to continue some dispute, who might have mistaken Hermaios for someone else?’

  ‘No.’ His voice rose in protest.

  I wondered about the confrontation I’d witnessed. ‘Did Hermaios favour learning the poet’s craft by seeing the epics performed? What were his thoughts on the festival commissioners stipulating everyone in the contest must use copies of the same scrolls?’

  Ikesios sniffed, coughed and replied with determined composure. ‘He saw those things as two sides of the same coin. He said a poet can’t understand how to bring the great epics to life without seeing a master of the craft perform. No man can learn to throw a discus or javelin by reading an athlete’s victory ode. He must take to the field himself. On the other hand, the best way to honour Homer is to make certain his words aren’t corrupted by someone’s fallible memory or by unwarranted pride that leads a lesser poet to think he can improve on perfection.’

  It was hard to see how anyone on either side of the debate could have taken murderous offence at that, especially as Hermaios hadn’t even been in the tavern the night before last.

  ‘What episode of the Iliad was Hermaios going to give us?’ Apollonides asked.

  ‘The final conclusion. Priam’s appeal to Achilles. That’s why we knew he’d win the competition, no matter who had gone before him, Hermaios would outstrip them.’

  Ikesios stopped abruptly. The youth’s face twisted as he struggled to master his emotions.

  I turned to Apollonides. ‘So what drew you away from epic performance to a career on the stage?’

  He managed a grin. ‘It turned out I had a talent for turning even the most drama
tic action into comedy. I swear to the muses I never meant to, but I couldn’t even recite the duel between Paris and Menelaus without getting a few laughs.’

  ‘I know the feeling.’ I really did. ‘My attempts to write tragedy risked bringing Melpomene’s wrath down on my head. Somehow the jokes always slipped in.’

  Ikesios had got himself in hand. ‘No one wants to anger a muse.’

  He started walking again. Apollonides and I let him set the pace. Before I could find a way to ask anything else about Hermaios, the boy stopped and pointed at a tavern.

  ‘Let’s take a table.’

  We walked with him to claim seats beneath a leafy pergola. The youth was clearly known to the owner, who greeted him with a wave.

  ‘The usual?’

  Ikesios nodded, then turned to us. ‘Excuse me for a moment.’ He headed for the rear of the tavern, seeking either a latrine or some privacy to regain his composure.

  As soon as he was out of earshot, I turned to Apollonides. ‘So who is he?’

  ‘A young epic performer, just starting out. He’s good. Hermaios was introducing him to the other poets and giving him advice on improving his skills.’ Apollonides winced. ‘I’m not surprised he’s devastated. They were very close.’

  I could see he meant Hermaios had been Ikesios’ lover as well as his friend and mentor. The youth would surely want to help see this killer – or killers – caught. I wished I could think how to use this gift from the gods without adding to the young man’s grief.

  The tavern owner brought us a jug of wine. I poured a libation. ‘May Dionysos and the muses help us see justice for Hermaios – and for Daimachos of Leuktra,’ I added hastily.

  All Hellenes owe allegiance and duty to the same gods, and that means the inhabitants of every city can expected their divine protection and retribution, even the obnoxious ones.

  ‘May Athena and Apollo help in this hunt.’ Apollonides made his own offering.