Justice for Athena

by JM Alvey

  I looked at Mus. ‘I’m going to the Pnyx.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll tell Ambrakis.’

  I hurried away. I hadn’t reached the end of the street when I realised the papyrus sheets were still rolled and thrust through my belt. I’d forgotten to give them to Mus or Lydis. I decided that didn’t matter now. Then I realised something else and my mouth dried with apprehension.

  Eupraxis of Lemnos wouldn’t be up at the Pnyx, and nor would Theokritos Polytimou. They would be at home rehearsing, making sure they would honour Athena with their best performance after being called on at such short notice. When I’d called on Theokritos yesterday, I’d barely managed to get his attention long enough to answer my questions. He’d been striding up and down the courtyard of his comfortable Melite home absorbed in polishing his delivery.

  I reached the junction and hesitated. Would the killer know these two poets had been chosen to replace his victims? Would he realise they were most likely honing their lines at home? Would either of them have slaves fool enough to open their door to a stranger? Would the killer force his way in regardless? There was no way to know, and in any case, that was irrelevant. As soon as either poet set foot on the street wearing that distinctive red cloak, they would be marked men as far as the murderer was concerned.

  I glanced over my shoulder. There was no point going back to Aristarchos’ house. I had no authority to give orders there. I was the only one who could do anything about this. I started running, ignoring the protests from my weary feet. I told myself Zosime would understand, when I explained what I’d been doing to delay my arrival at the theatre.

  Chapter Nine

  Theokritos was as annoyed to be interrupted as he had been when I turned up yesterday. He was still perfecting his pacing, gestures and delivery for an audience of two dozing slaves and an interested dog. Everyone else must be out enjoying the Great Panathenaia whether they wanted to or not. When the master of the house demanded peace and quiet, that’s what he got.

  The performer’s head was too full of Homer’s shining words to listen to what I was saying. I was trying to explain for a second time when he started striding across the courtyard, muttering a rhythmic passage under his breath. I was going to have to shock him to get his attention.

  ‘This killer is trying to find an epic poet who has seduced a citizen woman. He won’t stop until he finds the guilty man.’

  Theokritos spun round, outraged. ‘You throw this foul accusation at my feet, in my very own house?’

  Almighty Zeus couldn’t have been more ferociously offended. Though granted, that’s not the best comparison since the great god is notoriously unfaithful.

  ‘Go and see for yourself! Throw open every door! I have nothing to hide!’ Theokritos strode towards me, jabbing a finger at my face. ‘I warn you, if you ever repeat this slur, if I hear you have slandered me thus, I will see you in court. I will see you beggared as a punishment for such a vile lie!’

  His fury roused the sleepy slaves, though I don’t think they could work out if they were supposed to help me search the house or to throw me out on my arse. Looking at Theokritos as he bristled with righteous indignation, I was ready to believe he had never strayed from his marital bed.

  ‘No, I don’t think you’ve done any such thing, but we believe this man, who has attacked three of your fellow poets, is convinced that one of your number has wronged him. Now we know there’s a woman involved.’

  Theokritos’ self-assurance faltered. ‘What do you mean? He’s attacked three of us?’

  I told him what had happened to Thallos, and told myself this wasn’t breaking my promise. I was saying the battered poet wasn’t a seducer, not speculating that he might be.

  ‘Please keep this to yourself. Thallos doesn’t want his name linked to rumour of such a scandal any more than you do. He knows people will be ready to believe the worst of such gossip.’

  Theokritos ran a hand through his thinning hair, apprehensive. ‘Very well, and yes, I won’t see his name dragged through the mud. He is a good friend, as was Hermaios.’

  ‘You have to watch your back,’ I stressed. ‘Until we catch this brute, there’s no knowing who he might attack next.’

  He nodded. ‘Thank you for the warning. I won’t go anywhere unattended until I have given my performance.’

  ‘Not until the end of the festival would be my advice.’

  Theokritos caught my dubious glance at the aged slaves who were already dozing again in the shade of the porch. ‘I have one son in his final year of studies at the Lyceum, and another home for the festival from service with the garrison near Eleusis. They’re more than able to defend me.’

  ‘That’s good to know,’ I said, heartfelt. ‘And please, if you can think of any poet who might be accused of being a seducer, rightly or wrongly, let me know. That will help us find this killer and see your friends avenged.’

  Along with Daimachos of Leuktra. A man didn’t have to be likeable to deserve justice.

  Theokritos nodded, solemn. ‘Of course, though I have to say I can’t think of anyone who would pursue another man’s wife.’

  I could only hope some recollection might stir later, and fight its way through the Trojans and Argives who currently filled his thoughts. ‘Thank you, and good day to you.’

  I was about to let myself out, but one of the slaves wasn’t as fast asleep as he looked, and he hurried over to open the gate. As I headed for the foundry in Kerameikos I looked for a sundial, but couldn’t see one. Regardless, I needed to hurry up if I was to get to the theatre to see Hyanthidas play in the twin pipe contest.

  To save what time I could, I avoided the crowds in the agora by cutting through the streets that run to the west of the Temple of Hephaistos. As I glanced up at the shining white marble shrine, I wondered if I should go and make a libation to the lame god, after I warned Eupraxis and before I headed for the Pnyx. Hephaistos’ legs might be weak, but his wits are as strong as his arms. He’d had his revenge on his adulterous wife without killing anyone. Instead, he trapped Ares and Aphrodite in bed together with a net they couldn’t escape. Then he dragged them before the rest of the gods to be laughed at. I wasn’t laughing today. There was nothing remotely funny about two dead men and one who’d barely escaped with his life thanks to Aphrodite.

  We needed divine help in this hunt. If we didn’t catch this killer sniffing around the Pnyx over these three days while the Iliad was performed, I couldn’t see how we were ever going to find him. Worse, I couldn’t see how we could stop him from striking again once the epic was over and done with. Some of the poets might sit through the performance of the Odyssey, or perhaps they would drop by when a particular friend was entertaining the audience over those two days, but the rest would scatter throughout the city. They might want to see the athletics contests, or the chariot races and the horse races at the track outside the city. Others would be drinking with friends or celebrating the Great Panathenaia with their family.

  Unless Aristarchos, Melesias and some other rich men could lend us an army of slaves to give each man a personal attendant, the only way we’d catch this murderer was if Kallinos or some other Scythian stumbled across him with another poet bleeding in his grasp or dead at his feet. I wasn’t going to pray for any such thing. Coincidences belong on the stage, not in this real-life tragedy.

  I didn’t want anyone else to die. I wanted to see justice done to lift this taint from my city, but I couldn’t see how that was going to happen. We only had eight days before the last drops of water ran out of this particular clock. I guessed the poets would most likely stay until the last day of the festival when the prizes were awarded, but after that they’d be heading for whatever city they called home, or the next festival where they planned to display their skills. Did that mean they would be safe if the killer was an Athenian? Would he stay here rather than pursue them? Perhaps, but I couldn’t count on that.

  I reached the street where the foundry stood. As I expected, the gates
were closed and the air was free of smoke and the taste of hot metal. The silence wasn’t total though. There was no bellows’ growl or the ring of tools on metal, but I could hear voices. Not that I expected the place to be deserted. There were bound to be guards to prevent any pilfering while the artisans were away.

  But I wasn’t hearing the idle grumbles of slaves who had somehow forfeited the favour of leisure to enjoy the Great Panathenaia. These were angry voices, hurling accusations. I couldn’t make out the words, but the aggressive tone was unmistakable. I broke into a run, but the slap of my sandals and my own noisy breath filled my ears. I reached the gate and stopped to listen, trying to subdue my heaving chest with one hand. The next words I heard rang with menacing defiance.

  ‘Do not hope to intimidate me with your speeches, as if I were some boy! I am just as well versed in hurling insults and slurs!’

  Was Eupraxis trying to talk his way out of danger? Words are all very well as a weapon, but I’ve yet to see anyone fight off a spear with a pen.

  ‘It’s me, Philocles! Open up!’ I hammered on the gate.

  Not waiting for an answer, I stepped back to assess the height of the entrance. I wondered if I had any chance of getting over that wall without help. Before I could try, the gate opened a crack. I charged forward, ready to use all my strength to force my way inside. Though I wasn’t sure what I was going to do after that. Wrestling a man to the ground was one thing, but the killer had used a knife on Hermaios. That wouldn’t stop me, but it would be a very different fight.

  The gate opened a little more, and Ikesios looked out. I barely managed to skid to a halt and avoid slamming into the heavy planks. If I’d hit the gate, I’d have sent him flying.

  ‘You’re here.’ That was a truly stupid thing to say, but it was the only way I could stop myself asking questions that would be far worse. I wanted to know why he wasn’t out in Keiriadai. His lover would be buried at dawn tomorrow, so those who had known and admired Hermaios would be paying their respects at his home today.

  ‘Yes?’ Ikesios’ stony expression challenged me to make something of it.

  I didn’t waste any more time. ‘I need to talk to Eupraxis, and since you’re here, to you.’

  Thankfully Ikesios was well used to taking orders from his elders. ‘Come in.’

  I followed him through the gate to see the poet standing in the centre of the courtyard consulting a scroll. A trio of slaves who looked a lot more useful than Theokritos’ pair looked at me from their seats on sacks in the shade of the charcoal store. Their curiosity was tempered with well-disguised irritation at this interruption to their private recital.

  Eupraxis looked up and nodded a greeting, though I don’t think he recognised me. His thoughts were far away on the field of battle outside Troy. He grimaced as he spoke to Ikesios.

  ‘I’m still not convinced that I’m getting enough difference in tone between Achilles and Aeneas.’

  I did feel a fool as I remembered that confrontation between those great heroes was in the episode they must be rehearsing. Not that I’d realised Eupraxis was speaking. The voice I’d heard had been deep, resonant and powerful. It seemed that Melesias Philaid knew talent when he saw it.

  Then I remembered why I was here. ‘Has anyone asked to see you today?’

  I breathed a little easier as they both shook their heads. ‘There’s been another attack. Don’t open the gates to anyone you don’t know, not until the festival is over.’

  Now I was talking as much to the slaves as to the two poets. Strictly speaking I had no right to give them orders, but I guessed that whoever owned them and this foundry wouldn’t want Eupraxis murdered on his premises. Thankfully, this trio looked bright enough to know it.

  ‘Can someone fetch me a cup of wine, well-watered, please.’ Theokritos hadn’t offered me any refreshment and the heat of the day was building.

  Ikesios sent a slave out to get us all a drink. Once I’d dismissed him with a nod of thanks, he and the other two charcoal shovellers took the hint and retreated. Now I was alone with Eupraxis and Ikesios. As soon as I’d quenched my thirst, I explained what I’d learned today.

  ‘I’ve never looked at another man’s wife, still less seduced one.’ Eupraxis looked baffled by the very idea. ‘Who needs that sort of trouble?’

  ‘You’re too devoted to your art to notice what’s going on around you,’ Ikesios told the other poet with a wry grin. Then he looked at me. ‘Hermaios warned me against sampling the temptations on offer. He said some women come looking for a little adventure with a poet who has set their blood racing. They think they’ll be safer from discovery if the man they invite into their garden will be leaving town in a day or so.’

  ‘Seriously?’ I was astonished.

  Granted, I know my brothers’ wives and my sister relish the freedom that festivals to honour the gods offer them for a few days or more each month. Their daily routine of childcare, weaving, and keeping everyone clean and fed is demanding, even with the household slaves our family is prosperous enough to own. But I still couldn’t imagine any of the women I knew disgracing themselves with such casual infidelity.

  Of course, our families aren’t so very wealthy. My brothers’ and sisters’ marriages have been made with due consideration for genuine affection, not merely to serve business dealings and political considerations. Those unromantic alliances so often feature in the scandals that winged Rumour spreads around the agora.

  On the other hand… Zosime was convinced that Mikos’ wife Onesime had found someone else to father her children, for fear of being divorced and sent back to her father, after failing to give her husband citizen sons to inherit his property and business. A woman had no hope of another marriage if she was known to be barren. Maybe not all infidelity was driven by heedless lust. It would be a whole lot easier to pass off a cuckoo in a nest if the child didn’t look like the neighbour from three doors down.

  ‘Who do you know who’s willing to pluck another man’s fruit?’ I asked bluntly. ‘Among your fellow poets.’

  Ikesios and Eupraxis exchanged a sheepish glance. I suddenly realised the three slaves had drifted closer again. They weren’t doing much to hide their interest in the turn our conversation had taken.

  ‘I’m sure you must have something you could be getting on with.’ I shooed them away, flapping my hands like my mother with her hens. Once the slaves were out of earshot again, I returned my attention to the two young poets. ‘Well?’

  ‘Epilykos of Klazomenai swears he’s never had to pay for sex.’ Eupraxis shrugged. ‘I’ve seen him with any number of women in different towns. Whether they were married or not? I couldn’t say.’

  That could still be an empty boast, but with two men dead, I wasn’t about to discount the Ionian as the seducer. ‘Who have you seen him with here? Do you remember any of their names?’

  Not that that would necessarily get us much further forward. Athenian women don’t have voting tribe affiliations or belong to neighbourhood associations that would help us find whoever had gone so scandalously astray.

  Eupraxis shook his head. ‘No, that’s to say, I haven’t seen him with anyone on his arm recently, but then I haven’t seen much of him at all. He keeps to his own circle of friends.’

  Ikesios spoke up. ‘Demokleides has a reputation as a bit of a satyr, and so does Timagoras.’ He knew that I’d know who he meant. Both men’s fathers’ names and their Athenian voting affiliation were on my list. ‘But I don’t think they’re fool enough to piss on their own doorstep.’

  But he didn’t sound entirely convinced, and as the saying goes, even Homer’s attention can lapse. Not that I’d say that to these ardent defenders of the great poet’s genius.

  ‘Anyone else?’ I demanded.

  The young poets exchanged another glance. As they shook their heads, I believed them. Of course, that didn’t mean any of the men they had named was the guilty one, but I had to start somewhere. Maybe one of those truffle hounds knew which of th
eir colleagues and rivals went about their seductions more discreetly. This woman had to know she’d be pursued when she fled her family. I wondered where the guilty man was hiding her, and groaned inwardly at the prospect of visiting every poet’s accommodation again.

  ‘I’m going up to the Pnyx to warn as many of the poets as I can, and to see what they can tell me.’ I would have to find a way of suggesting some woman was the cause of this mayhem without mentioning Thallos specifically. Perhaps a self-conscious glance or unconvincing denial would save me from another odyssey around the city.

  ‘Watch your backs, the pair of you, and warn anyone else you see that the Scythians are convinced this brute is still on the hunt for poets, even if Thallos wants to think some thief was just after his purse.’

  I left the foundry and went on my way. As I cut through the crowds and headed past the Hill of the Nymphs, I wondered if the guilty man was an Athenian or a visitor. Would fear of this killer make him confess?

  He might well still end up in court charged with illegal seduction of a citizen woman even after the killer was apprehended. Someone else would become head of that outraged family with every right to demand legal redress. If the seducer was a visitor, it was a fair bet that he wouldn’t want to face an Athenian jury. In all honesty I have to admit the courts here rarely favour foreigners.

  Not that an Athenian would fare much better. If the jury was feeling particularly vindictive, the reparations to be paid could beggar him. He might escape that, only to be subjected to some inventive and humiliating punishment instead. I’d never known anyone who’d actually had his cock and balls stripped of hair to leave him with the choice of staying away from the gymnasium or having everyone see his shame laid bare, but such a man faced lasting derision either way. Rumour abounded of worse retribution. Whispers of radishes shoved where no one would want one. Peeled radishes.

  I reluctantly concluded that my best hope was finding a poet who was willing to point the finger at the guilty man, if only to save himself from suspicion. Honour among allies is all very well, but men were dying for the sake of someone’s infidelity. Surely that should convince anyone who knew something that he wasn’t betraying a confidence. He was saving a life and that life might just be his own.