Justice for Athena

by JM Alvey

  It was considerably more than a moment before Ikesios reappeared. His hair was wet and he’d found a comb from somewhere to tidy up his long curls. His eyes were still reddened, but less swollen. I guessed he’d begged a bowl of water and washed his face after another bout of weeping.

  He took his stool and picked up his cup. His lips moved silently as he poured the first sip. Whatever his prayer might be, that was between him and whichever god or goddess he addressed. Then he took a long drink and turned to me. His voice was steady and his face was determined.

  ‘So who are you, and what can I do to help avenge Hermaios?’

  Chapter Seven

  Talking everything through with Apollonides and Ikesios did at least help me get my thoughts in order. Ikesios begged pen, ink and papyrus from his friend who owned the tavern and we made a list of questions that needed answers. I should have done this sooner, I realised. I always think more clearly with a pen in my hand.

  Armed with the rolled papyrus stuck in my belt, we headed into the city. The street outside the Phytalid house was busy with arriving guests. Trusted household slaves ushered visiting family inside for refreshment and to wash away the dust of their journey. Sweating slaves weighed down with baskets and chests waited mute and weary until they were summoned to deliver their burdens to their masters’ and mistresses’ accommodation.

  ‘You two wait here.’ I judged my moment and headed across the gravel as Mus was about to close Aristarchos’ gate behind my patron’s eldest son Xenokrates.

  Mus paused, holding the gate ajar. ‘Yes?’

  ‘My compliments to your master, and may I please see him, very briefly?’

  Mus surprised me with a prompt nod. ‘He wants to see you. Who’s he?’

  He gestured across the street, and I saw he meant Ikesios. He already knew Apollonides from our rehearsals here.

  ‘Ikesios Menexonou of Piraeus. The devoted friend of Hermaios Metrobiou.’

  Mus opened the gate a little wider. ‘Come in.’

  He clearly only meant me, so I waved at the others and went inside. Mus closed the gate and summoned a passing slave. ‘I need Lydis.’

  The slave hurried off. I took a seat in the outer courtyard as Mus opened the gate to more of the household’s slaves returning from the agora with baskets of provisions.

  I could hear voices and laughter in the inner courtyard. A few moments later, a young woman appeared in the archway, wearing the long decorous dress of a citizen, and the jewellery of a wealthy one. She clapped her hands loudly. ‘Thraitta!’

  A girl hurried through a door, her head obediently ducked. As they went back through the arch, I guessed the young woman was one of Aristarchos’ daughters. I knew it was his wife’s custom to call the household slaves by the same name, to save the bother of learning what they called themselves. I had never actually met any of the Phytalid women. The more well-born and well-connected an Athenian citizen wife or daughter is, the less she has to do with anyone outside the well-guarded circle of her family and their equally exalted friends.

  I realised I’d seen no sign of Hipparchos, Aristarchos’ youngest son. I wondered if he had been sent away to the country again as penance for some foolishness. That had been the price he had paid before, after getting mixed up in dangerous stupidity that could have ended in lifelong disgrace or worse. I had thought he had learned that lesson.

  Aristarchos appeared with Lydis at his heels. As he summoned me with a gesture, the slave hurried past him to open the door to the outer courtyard’s dining room. We stepped into the welcome cool. The room was furnished for entertaining, but Aristarchos made no move to sit down.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I can’t find any reason to believe that Hermaios died for a personal quarrel.’ I told him what we had learned from Ikesios.

  He nodded, exasperated, though not with me. ‘I sent Lydis out with some letters last night, to make a few discreet enquiries. No one can suggest anyone who could be striking at Melesias Philaid so foully. No one can think of anyone who would even want to trip him in the street. He takes no interest in drafting new laws to be put before the Assembly. He hasn’t pursued anyone through any of the courts as long as I’ve known him, and I can’t recall him being summoned to defend himself against the most trivial charge. He devotes himself to nurturing poets and musicians.’

  I had never seen Aristarchos show such frustration.

  ‘So we must look for the answer among the poets here to perform the Iliad.’ That was the conclusion I’d reached with Apollonides and Ikesios. Primarily, it must be said, because that seemed to be the only place left to look.

  Aristarchos stared at me, incredulous. ‘You think one of them has done this?’

  ‘It seems unlikely, I grant you,’ I admitted, ‘but the only things these two dead men have in common are their red cloaks and their performer’s staffs. At very least, one of the other poets must know something that will offer the key to unlock this. Hermaios Metrobiou had a young lover; an epic poet he was teaching their trade. He’s a citizen from a good family who can give evidence in court if needs be, and he can vouch for me with the Great Panathenaia performers. I propose we go and ask every last one of them what they think is going on. For a start, we can identify any man who can’t find others to vouch for him in the hours when Hermaios must have died as well as the night when Daimachos was murdered. Anyone like that must surely come under suspicion.’

  Aristarchos considered this, then nodded decisively. ‘This Ikesios can also keep Hermaios’ family informed of whatever we learn. Vengeance is their duty first and foremost, whatever we might do to help.’ He glanced at Lydis. ‘Fetch enough silver to loosen some tongues.’

  I hadn’t expected that, and tried to find a way to say thank you as the slave hurried away.

  Aristarchos smiled without much humour. ‘I leave it to your discretion to decide whether to buy wine, or to simply pour coin into someone’s hands to win us answers. If there are any to be had.’

  I was relieved to see he wouldn’t blame me if there weren’t. Aristarchos is a realist as well as scrupulously fair. Of course, that blade has two edges. He would reward whoever led us to the truth, and he would be just as intent on seeing the guilty punished. But I was getting ahead of myself. We had a long way to go before anyone could be accused of murder before the Areopagus Court.

  ‘Can you tell me who Melesias will be asking to make up the roster for the Iliad?’

  ‘I managed to persuade him to assign two well-regarded poets as direct replacements,’ Aristarchos said with heartfelt relief. ‘Eupraxis of Lemnos will take on the episode that was allocated to Daimachos, and Theokritos Polytimou of Prospalta will conclude the performance.’

  I repeated the names to myself, to make sure I didn’t forget them before I got my hands on a pen and some ink.

  ‘Is that everything you needed to ask me?’ Aristarchos glanced towards the door.

  ‘It is.’

  I had barely spoken when Lydis reappeared with a soft leather drawstring bag and a tense expression as he addressed his master. ‘The mistress asks where you are.’

  ‘I’m coming.’ Aristarchos took the pouch of coin from the slave and handed it to me. ‘Call here around dusk if you can. If I’m not free to see you, tell Lydis everything you’ve learned.’

  ‘Of course.’ I followed them out of the dining room. As they headed for the inner courtyard, I turned towards the gate. Before Mus opened it, I dropped the bag of money down inside my tunic, where it was held secure by my belt.

  I was glad I was wearing a loose tunic, though I’d been thinking about the heat when I dressed today, not planning on hiding a substantial sum of money. I was also glad I’d have company if I was going to be walking the length and breadth of the city. Any thief who took this much coin off me could take the festival as a holiday and still go home in profit. The weight pressed against my belly, and the challenge I faced weighed on my mind.

  Apollonides and Ikesios looked a
lot more cheerful than I felt as they chatted, leaning against the opposite wall. As soon as they saw me, they straightened up, expectant. I was reminded again of Apollonides’ performance in The Hounds.

  ‘Well?’ Ikesios demanded.

  ‘Aristarchos Phytalid asks that you tell Hermaios’ family whatever we learn about his death. Please assure them that we are only trying to help them see justice done.’

  ‘Of course.’ He nodded. ‘And—’

  ‘Eupraxis of Lemnos will give the gods going to war, and Theokritos Polytimou of Prospalta will perform Priam’s appeal to Achilles.’

  Ikesios stood motionless, looking like a particularly fine example of the sculptor’s art. Then he nodded, resolute. ‘Theokritos will give a fine performance. He will honour Hermaios’ memory.’

  His attempt to stay dispassionate was undermined by the quiver of his lips. Then he shook his head, more openly surprised. ‘Eupraxis, though. I wouldn’t have expected that.’

  ‘What are we going to do, now that we have the full roster?’ Apollonides nodded at the papyrus still tucked through my belt. With Ikesios’ help in the tavern, we had compiled a full list of the Iliad’s episodes, and the poets who were to perform each piece. ‘And did they feed you a whole roast fowl while you were in there?’

  I gently patted my newly acquired paunch to prompt a discreet chinking of silver. ‘Aristarchos reckons poets must get thirsty while they’re rehearsing.’

  ‘So are we starting with Achilles and his sulks?’ Apollonides looked from me to Ikesios.

  One thing we hadn’t been able to agree on was which poet to talk to first, to establish where everyone had been when Hermaios had been murdered.

  ‘I’d like to talk to the men who’ve benefited most directly from these two tragedies.’ I looked at the youth. ‘Do you know where Eupraxis is staying?’

  Ikesios nodded, confident. ‘In Kerameikos.’

  I was even more relieved to have them both with me. ‘Let’s go and see how he’s taking the news of his unexpected honour.’

  ‘Yes, let’s.’ There was a glint in Ikesios’ eye.

  Apollonides and I exchanged a glance as we let him lead the way. Apollonides was amused. I was more thoughtful.

  We made our way through the agora, which was even busier than it had been yesterday. I kept my arms folded across my belly and wished I had worn a cloak, however hot that would have been. As it turned out, we passed through the marketplace without the slightest incident. I couldn’t relax though. The Kerameikos district was heaving like an anthill poked with a stick, as locals and visitors alike sought its brothels and other entertainments, much to the irritation of artisans like Zosime’s father, Menkaure, who live there. It’s a district that has always welcomed foreigners with open arms, as residents to toil in its workshops, or visitors with purses to empty.

  Eupraxis was lodging in a small-scale bronze foundry not far from the Panathenaic Way and overlooked by the Temple of Hephaistos. The slave in charge of the entrance recognised Ikesios and nodded the three of us through with a grunt.

  The lame god of smiths would approve of the industrious slaves and youths busy cleaning and polishing household fittings and ornaments fresh from the casting moulds. Older, serious-faced men tended the hearths and the crucibles of molten metal, and a small slave girl was busy going from furnace to furnace carrying cups of water for the artisans, dipped from a great stone jar by the gate. We could feel the heat of the fires across the courtyard, and I didn’t envy anyone working here at this scorching time of year.

  The lad led us to a wooden stair giving access to a row of upper rooms above a charcoal store. Grimy slaves filling baskets to feed the voracious fires slowed to gape at us.

  Ikesios knocked at the third door along the shaded walkway. There was a muffled clatter inside, and the door opened. A younger man than I’d expected blinked at us uncertainly. He was no beardless youth, but he must be a good few years younger than me.

  ‘Eupraxis!’ Ikesios greeted him a little too warmly. ‘We’ve come to congratulate you.’

  So I had guessed right. Ikesios wouldn’t have expected this honour for himself, not while he was still learning his craft, but he couldn’t help a little envy that Eupraxis had been awarded this opportunity so early in his career.

  ‘Thank you.’ Eupraxis looked as if he still had to make up his mind about whether he’d been blessed or cursed.

  He made no move to step away from the door, to invite us in. But he didn’t fill the entrance like Mus and, looking past him, I saw a scroll unrolling itself across the floorboards. The sound we had heard had been Eupraxis knocking over the basket I could see lying on its side.

  ‘Better pick that up,’ I said cheerfully.

  As Eupraxis turned to see what I meant, I stepped forward. The poet took a pace backwards without thinking, and before he could object we were inside.

  I picked up the scroll and saw that it was indeed Homer’s sublime poetry, liberally annotated with squiggles of ink and underlining that meant nothing to me. ‘Refreshing your memory, I see.’

  ‘A good idea.’ Apollonides set the basket upright and took the scroll from me to reroll and replace it.

  Eupraxis sat down on the narrow bed. There were two stools, so I took one while Apollonides took the other. Ikesios leaned against the wall by the unshuttered window. The ringing notes of metal being worked floated up from the courtyard, underscored by the intermittent dull roar of bellows stirring the furnaces’ flames.

  ‘I have three days to prepare.’ Eupraxis sounded as if he didn’t quite believe it. His accent was almost Athenian, and I recalled how many of the city’s poor had been offered land grants in Lemnos in recent years. I guessed that explained his ties to this workshop.

  ‘Is the gods joining the war an episode you’re particularly celebrated for performing?’ I asked as casually as I could. ‘Had you hoped to offer it to the audience here?’

  Eupraxis stared at me oddly intently. I realised where I’d seen that expression before. One of my mother’s brothers has eyes that are weaker than most. Anything more than a spear’s length away is indistinct to my uncle, and within a bow shot, the whole world is a blur to him.

  ‘No,’ the poet said after a moment. ‘I mean, I performed this episode in the contest in Epidaurus last year, at the Asklepion. It was very well received, but I didn’t win the prize. I came to watch the Great Panathenaia contest, to see what I could learn to improve my style. I never expected I’d be called on to perform. I could name ten men I would have expected to see called forward first. Though of course, I am most grateful to tireless Athena for this singular honour.’

  His voice rose with a hint of panic, and I wondered what Melesias could have been thinking when he chose this particular poet. I hoped Athena and the Muses knew what they were doing.

  Ikesios stepped forward from the wall by the window. ‘You should have won. Hermaios was so impressed that he told me to remember what I had seen, so I might learn from you.’ There was no hint of envy in his voice now, just honest admiration.

  ‘Truly?’ Eupraxis’ expression brightened like a flower touched by the sun.

  I was still trying to find answers that might lead us to Hermaios’ killer. Unfortunately this conversation was only showing me more passages in this labyrinth. ‘Was Theokritos Polytimou one of the poets you would have expected to see called on, if another man was unable to perform?’

  ‘Of course.’ Eupraxis didn’t hesitate.

  ‘And you say there are others?’ I looked around the room and saw a pen box on the small table. ‘May I use some of your ink?’

  ‘Of course.’ He was still confused.

  ‘Please tell me their names.’ I dragged my stool over and took the papyrus out of my belt. ‘We’re trying to find out who killed Daimachos of Leuktra and Hermaios Metrobiou. Please, will you help us, on behalf of Melesias Philaid?’

  ‘You think – you think – they died by the same hand?’ Eupraxis was horrified. ‘Y
ou think another poet killed them?’ In the next breath he was outraged. ‘Why?’

  I didn’t think he’d want to hear it was because we couldn’t come up with any other possibility. I chose my words carefully as I opened his inkwell and dipped in a reed pen.

  ‘We want to make sure no other poet could have done this foul deed – these deeds. We can free you all from the burden of suspicion, if we find witnesses to where each man was when these murders were committed. We must be certain though, and not just of the poets here to perform the Iliad. Someone else might have thought they could profit from these killings and take to the speaker’s platform. We cannot risk allowing a man whose hands are stained with another’s blood to defile the festival by taking part.’

  That possibility horrified Eupraxis as much as me.

  ‘Hades forfend! When did they die?’

  I told him, as far as we could know.

  ‘I was here, in the hours when Daimachos must have been killed.’ he insisted. ‘The night-watch slave can vouch for that. I spent yesterday afternoon with Epilykos of Klazomenai. We haven’t seen each other since the last Nemean Games so we had a lot of news to share. There were several others with us.’ He listed three of the Ionian performers who were already on my list.

  I dutifully noted that down, but I hadn’t forgotten my original question. ‘Please, can you tell me who else might have been called on to take either dead man’s place?’

  Ikesios spoke up from beside the window, where he was leaning on the wall again. ‘Artemon of Thorikos has to be one.’

  Eupraxis looked over to him, uncertain. ‘Is he in the city? Have you seen him?’

  Now Ikesios looked unsure. ‘No, not yet, but would he be anywhere else during the Great Panathenaia?’

  My heart sank. ‘Can we confine ourselves to poets you think are actually in Athens?’

  Even so, by the time the two of them had finished, I had added another fourteen names to my list. I heaved a sigh as I got to my feet.

  Apollonides stood up and jerked his head at Ikesios. ‘Come on. You can make a few more introductions for us.’