by JM Alvey
As I made my way up the slope to the broad expanse of the assembly ground, I ran through various ways of putting that. I needed some compelling phrase or argument. I couldn’t find one. So much for my skills with words.
I reached the point where more people were standing and watching rather than walking around. The crowd at these performances is never wholly still, as those in the audience feel the need for a latrine or just to stretch their legs. In the midst of an episode as we were now though, most of those watching gave the poet the courtesy of their attention. Those who were here for the whole day, perhaps for the entire performance, had claimed the ground closer to the speaker’s platform. They had brought blankets, cushions and baskets of snacks, and were comfortably settled.
Food and drink went forgotten for the moment as the poet up on the stone platform held the audience enthralled. He was Odysseus rebuking those Achaeans whose resolve for the war on Troy was faltering. Over to one side, Melesias Philaid and the competition’s judges were enthroned on tall chairs of woven cane, holding the forked staffs that are the symbol of their office. They were watching the dramatic performance intensely. Melesias was perched on the edge of his cushioned seat, and his gaze flickered from the poet striding back and forth to the men who were sitting alongside him. He might just as well have relaxed and enjoyed this reward for his efforts. The judges’ faces gave nothing whatsoever away to anyone who might be here to cheer on a friend, or to place bets on the contest’s outcome.
Not everyone was so restrained. Close to the front of the audience, I caught a glimpse of a small boy springing to his feet, his little fists clenched. He was maybe six or seven years old, and he stood poised like an athlete ready to run. His unblinking gaze was fixed on the poet and his young face was too full of emotion for words.
I realised he didn’t know this story yet. This poet’s passion had convinced the lad there was every chance these Achaeans would leave their tents and head for their ships to sail home. I could see those seated closest by smiling at the youngster with indulgent amusement. For a moment, my own spirits lightened, as I contemplated the delights that lay ahead for the child as he learned all the great stories of the gods and heroes. He was embarking on a journey longer than Odysseus’ voyage home, and would see more marvels than the wily Ithacan ever encountered.
But I was here to stop a real-life tragedy, or at very least, I had to try.
Chapter Ten
I looked around and saw several Scythians making their way through the crowd around the edge of the assembly space. The armoured slaves didn’t seem to be responding to any particular threat and I breathed a little easier.
I couldn’t see Kallinos anywhere, and there was no sign of Ambrakis either, but it was going to be much harder to pick the bodyguard out of the crowd with everyone dressed much the same. In Athens you have to get up close to see the differences that money makes in someone’s appearance. Even then, the wealthy who have their wits about them generally take care not to advertise their good fortune too openly on the streets.
Finally I saw a Scythian face I recognised and started making my way towards him. People looked at me with varying degrees of irritation and confusion as I ducked past, trying not to obscure their view of the performance too much.
By the time I reached the Scythian I’d remembered his name. ‘Dados.’
He nodded. ‘Philocles.’
I looked around. ‘Where’s Kallinos?’
‘Called away.’
I should have remembered Dados was a man of few words. That didn’t mean he was a fool.
‘Do you know why?’
‘Uproar in some tavern.’
I was just relieved to know Kallinos hadn’t been summoned to another dead body in an alley.
‘Do you know if he managed to speak to the poets here, to tell them what we know? To warn them they’re still in danger?’
Dados shrugged. ‘He spoke to several of the men in red cloaks. He told us to watch out for anyone who looks like trouble near the rest of them.’
His keen eyes were scanning the crowd as he spoke. I started looking as well, and soon picked out a poet wearing red. I couldn’t tell who it was. He was sitting among a group of men and women with his back to me. That didn’t matter. The cloak was enough. I looked around and spotted a couple more. They looked to be enjoying themselves with their friends watching the poet stride back and forth on the platform, his bold words captivating the vast audience. He had reached the recitation of Agamemnon’s allies, who were waiting with him to storm the gates of Troy.
Different groups in the crowd cheered as the litany of places and people began. A group of Boeotians stood up and cheered, each one in turn as their home towns were mentioned. I wondered if any of them had travelled here with Daimachos, and if they knew he was dead.
Other visitors waited for their own chance to honour their ancestors who’d sailed with the Argive fleet. Some of the audience shouted, telling them to sit down, but mostly people just laughed. Up on the speaker’s platform, the poet didn’t miss a beat as he paused just long enough for each cheer to be heard without ever losing his rhythm. Competing in the Great Panathenaia recitals called for far more skills than just remembering Homer’s words.
I was in no mood to appreciate any performance, however admirable. I surveyed the crowd and chewed my lip, frustrated. We might know the killer’s grievance now, but we still had no real idea what he looked like. From what little Thallos could tell us, he could be any one of the hundreds of men who were right here. Add to that, his task was so much easier than ours. He might not know exactly who he was hunting, but he only needed to pick off men in red cloaks one by one.
Was there any possibility that I could persuade the poets to set aside their cloaks, or only wear them when they took to the stage? I reckoned I had about the same chance of success as Icarus when he took to the skies. Could I convince Melesias Philaid to issue such an order, or would he feel doing that would offend Athena?
Surely nothing was likely to happen up here on the Pnyx, in full view of so many people. Perhaps, but I would have no excuses if I was proved wrong.
At the moment the only thing I was sure of was the poet up on the speaker’s platform was safe. Even so, he would need warning once the next performer stepped up to continue the epic tale.
Meantime, I would take the latest news to every poet I could see. If the man currently performing wasn’t put off by randomly cheering Hellenes, a single playwright creeping through the audience shouldn’t cause any noticeable disruption. It didn’t matter if Kallinos had already spoken to them, I decided. I wanted to see for myself if any of them looked guilty when I said we had reason to think the attacker was looking to settle a grievance that might or might not involve a woman. Obviously I would make it clear that Thallos was guiltless of any crime.
I headed for the closest red cloak. After a moment, I realised Dados was following me. I wasn’t about to object. If his presence meant people assumed I spoke with the authority of the city’s Archons, I wasn’t going to correct them. Then I realised rather more of the audience were getting up and moving around. It took me another moment to realise why.
The list of Agamemnon’s allies is a long one and it lasts until the end of this second episode of the Iliad. It’s fine and stirring stuff, with acknowledgements for a great many towns, honouring their heroes and their histories. In terms of the war against Troy though, nothing actually happens to move the drama along. Anyone without a reason to wait and proclaim their loyalty for their distant home could take this opportunity to get ahead of the queues that would soon form at the closest latrine or at the wine-sellers’ carts. Everyone would want an empty bladder and a full cup as they settled down to enjoy the next poet who would be stepping up to entertain them. Paris would be running scared of Menelaus, and noble, exasperated Hector would set up his nuisance of a little brother to fight a duel, with Helen as the victor’s prize.
The red cloak I was heading for was getting
to his feet to edge through the audience. Now I could see his face, I recognised Timagoras. I thanked Athena for this chance to corner him, especially with a Scythian at my side. After what Ikesios had said, I wanted to look into this satyr’s eyes when I offered a range of possibilities for these attacks, from some deceit over money or property to picking figs in another man’s garden.
Still at my shoulder, Dados murmured. ‘What do you suppose he’s doing?’
‘Who? Timagoras?’ The poet hadn’t done anything that I could see. I glanced at the Scythian, curious.
Dados wasn’t looking at the poet. I wondered what had caught the slave’s penetrating gaze. I saw a man trying to walk away from us, quickly and with enough purpose to be noticeable against the haphazard shuffling of the crowd.
‘What’s he done?’
‘Had his eye on your man in the cloak. Started moving as soon as he stood up. Wanted to get behind him.’ Dados’ hand strayed to the bow he carried slung over one shoulder. ‘As soon as he saw me looking, he decided it was time to leave.’
I told myself there could be any number of explanations. Then I clapped a hand to my ear. ‘Ow!’
A bee sting would have hurt less. Dados had startled me with a piercing whistle. Not a single note, but a lyrical phrase. It was like no bird that I’d ever heard. People close by looked in all directions, wondering where the unexpected noise had come from.
I heard the whistling call again, but not from Dados. Someone on the far side of the Pnyx had answered him. A third call came, and this time, I realised the rush of liquid notes was subtly different.
Dados grinned. ‘Come on.’
I hesitated, but only for a moment. That stranger had been intent on Timagoras. That meant he could well be our killer. I couldn’t pass up any chance to put an end to this carnage. I followed the Scythian as he cut through the crowd without the least apology.
The man who was trying to leave wasn’t making much headway against the press of people around the edge of the assembly area. We were gaining on him. Seeing Dados’ Scythian cuirass, men and women hastily got out of our path.
I saw the would-be fugitive passing through the outermost ring of the audience, and cursed under my breath. Once our quarry was away from the top of the Pnyx, he could head down the hill to take any one of countless streets or alleyways. The festival crowds wouldn’t be dense enough to stop him, but they would surely hide him from us.
I nearly tripped over Dados’ sandalled heels as the Scythian suddenly changed direction. Rather than head for where our quarry had been, he made for a comparatively open tract of stony ground between the backs of the people standing to enjoy a snatch of the Iliad and those waiting to buy wine or snacks. We had a clear view of the fleeing man as we arrived. I also saw he had space to run.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw Dados. He immediately took to his heels. Dados and I started running after him. Our quarry was soon getting well ahead of us. Whoever he was, he should be competing in the festival foot races. We had no hope of catching him now.
Dados pulled up and whistled again. I was prepared this time, but the sound was still ear-splitting. That pitch meant the signal cut through the noise of the crowd. Another whistle answered, and a burly Scythian stepped into the fleeing man’s path. The slave was close but not close enough. The fugitive veered away, heading for a road leading down from the Pnyx. I cursed again. We were going to lose him, and now he’d know he was hunted.
I’d underestimated the city slaves. With his attention split between the two of us behind him and the sudden appearance of that archer ahead, the man didn’t see the third Scythian, who stepped out from behind a wine cart. The slave thrust out a clenched fist, not to hit him, but to block his path. The running man had no hope of stopping. As his neck collided with the Scythian’s forearm, his feet shot clean out from under him. I swear he hung in the air for a moment, as horizontal as if he lay flat on his back in a bed. But he was at shoulder height with nothing at all to support him. The Scythian had calculated his move so precisely, I felt sure he had done that before.
The moment passed and the fugitive crashed down onto the bare rock. He lay so still that I wondered if he was actually dead rather than merely winded. As I walked towards him with Dados, I certainly couldn’t see any need for the heavy hobnailed foot the grinning Scythian planted on his prey’s chest. Whoever the fugitive was, he was going nowhere any time soon.
‘How did you manage that?’ I asked. ‘What do those whistles mean?’
Dados grinned. ‘Ask a Euboean.’
I waited for him to explain, but he didn’t say anything else.
As we reached the fallen man, Dados swung the quiver at his belt around behind his back and hunkered down to run his hands over the gasping captive with swift efficiency. ‘No knife.’
He startled me by seizing the neck of the fugitive’s tunic with both hands and ripping the cloth apart. As the tear reached the man’s navel to be stopped by his belt buckle, silver and gold gleamed in the sunlight. I saw bracelets and necklaces, even a couple of rings.
I recalled the heavy gold chain I’d seen shining around Timagoras’ neck. This man had been out to rob the poet, not kill him. I had no idea how he intended to do that, but street thieves can be infuriatingly successful.
Dados ripped a length of fabric off the man’s torn tunic and wrapped the stolen jewellery up in a secure bundle. He handed it to the Scythian who had put his foot back on the man’s bared chest. ‘Take him to the lock-up. I’ll spread the word.’
‘What word?’ I wanted to know.
Dados stood up. ‘Anyone missing something shiny should head for the city prison and try to convince Armenias they own something we’ve just found.’
His grin suggested that anyone offering a spurious claim was doomed to failure, as the Scythians hauled the wheezing man to his feet and marched him away. I had no further interest in his fate.
I looked around to see the recitation had just come to an end. The poet was standing in the centre of the speaker’s platform, and bowing to acknowledge the tribute of stamping feet and shouts of approval. After a few moments, he turned to depart. The next poet was already coming up the steps, prompting a fresh surge of raucous cheers.
The new arrival’s smile grew wide as he basked in this adulation. As he stretched his arms and rolled his shoulders like an athlete preparing to take on all comers, he tossed back a fold of his scarlet cloak. Then he strode to the centre of the platform and struck the close-fitted stones with the butt of the staff. The noise from the crowd subsided, not to silence – that would never happen up here – but to a susurration of anticipation.
‘Demokleides!’ A lone, ecstatic voice called out only to be hushed from all sides.
The poet planted the staff like a herald ready to share vital news. His gaze swept across the audience and his voice was as compelling as if he addressed each man, woman and child individually.
‘When the companies took their places, each obeying their leader, the Trojans advanced, shouting, raucous as birds…’
I made a swift decision. Even though this poet was the second man Ikesios had named as a possible seducer, I couldn’t believe the killer would try to strike here, under the watchful eyes of these Scythians. He’d have no chance to question his target about where to find the woman he sought. Even if he was simply intent on murder, he would see how slim his chances of escape would be. Whoever this evil man was, he wasn’t stupid.
I turned to Dados. ‘Tell as many of the poets as you can to watch their backs, while you’re spreading the word about that thief. Make certain you tell him, when he’s said his piece.’ I gestured towards Demokleides up on the speaker’s platform. ‘Tell them this killer’s hunting a man whom he believes has wronged his family somehow. If they have anything to confess, they should take it to Melesias Philaid.’
I didn’t imagine for a moment that Melesias would know what to do if someone came to him confessing adultery, but he was the festival co
mmissioner responsible for selecting the poets. I was pretty sure that he’d go straight to Aristarchos, and I trusted my former patron to see to it that any information that could identify the killer was taken to the Archons, and to Hermaios’ family.
I tugged the crumpled lists from my belt and handed the rolled papyrus to the Scythian. ‘See that these are delivered to Aristarchos Phytalid. I’m going to the theatre to see the pipe players’ competition.’
There was nothing more I could do here, and I wanted to see my friend try for glory.
Chapter Eleven
I made my way to the Theatre of Dionysos as fast as I could. A sundial rebuked me as I paused to buy bread and olives from a street-corner seller. No wonder I was ravenous. I was far later than I’d ever intended to be. I could only hope that Hyanthidas had drawn a potsherd scratched with a letter well down the alphabet in the lottery for the contest’s playing order.
When I arrived at the western entrance, on the upper path that runs between the second and third tiers of wooden benches, I found the theatre was full. I had to stand with everyone else who’d arrived too late to get a seat. That was okay. There weren’t too many people there and from this vantage point on the hillside, we had a decent view of the man playing down below.
The twin pipe contest was well under way. The festival judges for this particular competition sat on folding stools on either side of the small stepped platform that had been set up on the dancing floor by the altar. They were close enough to see every detail of a musician’s technique and to hear the slightest slip or fumble that the wider audience might miss.
The wealthy and well-connected of the city would be sitting in the front rows of marble seats that had been installed as part of Pericles’ theatre refurbishments. They would be comfortable on cushions their dutiful slaves must have brought at dawn to claim these favoured spots. Less exalted Athenian citizens, resident foreigners and countless visitors were crammed onto the wooden benches that reached up the hillside to where I was standing. Away to my left, the ranks of topmost seats accommodated the last to arrive and those slaves whose well-disposed owners had given them permission to be here.