by JM Alvey
There was nothing like the bustle that surrounded the performance of the Iliad up on the Pnyx. Everyone from highest to lowest was intent on the solitary performer currently standing in the centre of the stage. No one in the audience was talking or eating as the twin pipes’ intricate song floated through the air. Not that the player would have noticed if an entire chorus had pranced out onto the dancing floor. He could have been the only man in the whole vast half-circle of the theatre. Standing on the brightly decorated platform, his heavy-lidded gaze was unseeing as he strove for the perfection of his art.
I know from my own youthful attempts how difficult it is to play the twin pipes even passably well. Remembering the melody is the least of it. You have to continuously pass the tune from one pipe to the other, your fingers fluttering, without ever letting either length of polished deer bone slip in your hands. You have to keep the reeds of the mouthpieces moist without them becoming sodden with spit. All the while you must breathe in through your nose at the same time as holding enough air in your cheeks to sustain a steady and seamless flow of music.
It takes years to perfect that breathing and blowing technique, as young men discover at drinking parties, when a generous offering of silver persuades a hired piper to let them try. If they manage to get more than a few notes through the pipes, they end up choking or gasping as they run out of wind. I’ve long since resigned myself to playing a single, humble reed pipe at family parties.
No one was scrambling up or down the hillside on the narrow paths at the ends of the rows of benches. There would be time enough for anyone who really needed to go to leave in the brief intervals between the successive competitors. Those who had made their escape before this particular piper had taken to the stage were waiting on the path alongside me, as a burly theatre slave was blocking their way. Those slaves are a muscular crew. I’ve seen how easily they can shift heavy baskets of masks and costumes, not to mention operating the stage crane with a dangling actor on the other end.
I got the attention of a man on a nearby bench with a discreet wave of my hand. ‘Do you know if Hyanthidas of Corinth has played yet?’
I kept my voice low, but I still got glares of scorching disapproval from the closest seats. The man shook his head curtly. I wanted to ask if he meant Hyanthidas hadn’t been called to the stage yet or if he simply didn’t know, but his affronted expression warned me off saying anything more.
The theatre slave was watching me, unsmiling, and with his arms decisively folded. I knew he would move as soon as I did if I tried to go any further, so I stayed where I was. There was no point in doing anything else. I had no idea where Zosime, Menkaure and Telesilla might be sitting among the thousands in the audience.
I could wait until all these pipers had played. My beloved, her father and I had adopted my family’s long-standing tradition of gathering at the western entrance to the stage down below if we’d ever arranged to meet up at the theatre. So I slid down to rest on my haunches, leaning back against the close-fitted stones of the retaining wall that bordered the path. Closing my eyes, I let the music wash over me, soothing away the past few days’ frustrations. I had done all I could for Hermaios and Daimachos, and I could swear to it before gods and men.
The competitor’s performance ended, and a few people took advantage of the lull to slip quietly out. I stayed where I was as the slave on watch permitted those he recognised to return to the seats that a friend or relative would be zealously guarding. A murmur of conversation rose, warm with approval for the piper we had just heard. I wondered idly if such approbation ever influenced the judges.
The hum faded, as the next performer was announced and he took to the players’ platform. Simmias of Naxos. I didn’t know who he was, but from the rush of muted interest, which was hushed just as swiftly, plenty of the audience knew his name.
He was indeed a very talented pipe player, and so was the man who came after him. The day finally started to feel like a holiday as I let my mind follow the intricacies of the melody and enjoy the harmonies that underpinned it. I began to note the subtle differences between this man’s performance and the others. It’s hard to explain, and some people can never hear it, but somehow, one man’s touch on the pipes or the lyre can be recognisably different from another’s. That’s one of the things that distinguishes a master artist. An everyday entertainer’s ambition goes no further than hitting the right notes of songs and dances that everyone already knows.
As the next competitor was announced, I opened my eyes. It was Hyanthidas. I raised my gaze to the sky, and thanked Athena that I had got here in time. As I stood up, the Corinthian started to play a bold, fast-moving composition. It only took a handful of notes to show this was something very different to the tunes we’d been hearing so far. The music swooped and soared and doubled back on itself, to tease us with echoes of its own melody. It wasn’t a song that was sung in the streets or taverns here in Athens, but the rhythm reassured us with gleeful hints of familiarity before offering some new delight.
I watched Hyanthidas as he swayed and ducked his head while his fingers danced on the pipes. His gaze was fixed on the judges, alert and direct. His whole demeanour invited them to join him in the joyful music’s embrace. I looked at them myself, but couldn’t see any hint of what they were thinking. Their faces might have been carved marble, as unyielding as the seats beneath their well-born buttocks.
All too soon, Hyanthidas finished his performance with a resounding flourish. As the last ephemeral echoes faded, he stood motionless, gazing up beyond the audience towards the pale crags of the Acropolis. I recognised that feeling, even if a playwright never takes to the stage himself, not these days in Athens anyway. I had sat in this theatre, amid thousands of friends and strangers, in that strange twilight after the art I had toiled over for countless days had been offered up, just the once, to win or lose. At least the comedy contests are all decided and the winner crowned on the same day. I don’t know how I would cope if I had to wait a full seven days before I knew the judges’ verdict.
I tried to decide if the audience’s response to Hyanthidas was louder or more excited than the reactions I’d heard so far. I thought the whispers sounded more favourable, unless I was just imagining that because I wanted my friend to win.
Then Hyanthidas strolled off the platform and headed away towards the eastern side of the theatre. That didn’t matter. I seized my chance as the audience stirred to ease stiff legs and numb buttocks while they waited for the next piper. Dodging past the slave who was still standing there with folded arms, I hurried down the path cutting along the edge of the seats below and heading towards the stage. I didn’t cut across the dancing floor and risk official wrath, not to mention divine disapproval, but headed around behind the scenery building, there to serve as whatever palace or humble hovel might be required for a play. This was terrain I knew well, after competing here myself.
I found some competitors were lingering back there, surrounded by family and friends. Those loyal supporters were keeping their congratulations and encouragement suitably muted but no less heartfelt. More groups were gathered over by the small temple to Dionysos a short distance away. I saw concert lyre players still holding their cherished instruments, as well as men and boys whose pristine tunics and freshly barbered look suggested they had been entrants in the singing competitions earlier in the day.
The altar is set a little way away from the front of the modest temple. It had been newly whitened with chalk for the festival. Now the carved stone was liberally streaked with evidence of fervent libations. Apollo might have invented the lyre, and the reed pipe was Athena’s gift to humanity, but this theatre is Dionysos’ sacred territory. It looked as if every prudent musician had acknowledged the capricious god.
I looked around for Hyanthidas and saw his familiar tall figure walking towards a wine-seller. The enterprising man’s cart was drawn up at the very edge of the temple precinct, as close to the altar as he could get without intruding on
sanctified ground. I lengthened my stride and the piper turned to see who the wine-seller was looking at when the man’s jug halted in mid-pour. As he recognised me, the Corinthian smiled.
‘You made it then.’
‘Barely,’ I admitted. I reached inside my tunic. ‘Let me pay for this as my penance.’
For one horrible moment, I thought I’d lost my money while I’d been rushing around the city. Then I realised the drawstring pouch had slid around behind my back. I loosened my belt so it could drop to the ground, stooped, and picked it up.
‘Two, please, large measures. The black for me, if you please.’ I looked at Hyanthidas.
He nodded at the wine-seller. ‘The same, thank you.’
‘Four obols.’ The man smiled blandly at me.
That was twice what I expected to pay, but it was festival time, and I wasn’t in any mood to haggle. I handed over the coins, re-tightened my belt and dropped my money back down the neck of my tunic. We took our rough pottery cups and walked over to the altar. Hyanthidas was lost in his own thoughts and I didn’t intrude. He poured at least half of his wine over the whitened stone and drank the rest in a single swallow. I offered a more measured libation. I wasn’t about to offend the god, but I was thirsty after all my exertions. I took a long drink and coughed. That wine-seller sold a stronger mix than I was expecting.
Hyanthidas waited for me to recover. ‘So what’s kept you so busy today?’
‘Shall we sit down?’ I led the way back to the shady side of the temple. There isn’t a colonnade running all the way around the inner sanctum, but there are steps on the three faces of the broad portico, so we could perch there, facing the back of the stage.
I sipped my wine as I explained what we had learned from Thallos, and what Kallinos and I had done about it. By the time I was finished, my cup was long since empty, and Hyanthidas’ eyes were wide with consternation.
‘No wonder you couldn’t get here any sooner.’
‘Thanks.’ I only hoped Zosime would be as understanding. Thinking of her, I glanced at my friend, and tried to work out how to ask him how she seemed to be feeling. If she had said anything about my thoughtlessness yesterday.
Hyanthidas’ thoughts were elsewhere. ‘This gets worse and worse. How many more innocents will die if this killer isn’t caught?’
‘I hate to think.’ I looked over towards Dionysos’ altar. ‘Should we be offering a fuller sacrifice to him? If he can inspire frenzied bloodlust, do you suppose he can curb it as well?’
‘You should appeal to Aphrodite,’ Hyanthidas said firmly. ‘She intervened to save Thallos. This murderer might be claiming to act out of love, but this bloodshed and grief profanes everything that delights our laughter-loving goddess.’
I wasn’t going to argue with a Corinthian about that, when his city has the greatest temple that’s dedicated to Aphrodite anywhere. Still, here in Athens, she has an impressive altar and a glorious statue in the agora. I would go and make an offering first thing tomorrow.
Or perhaps I’d do it today, and add a heartfelt plea on my own account, if Zosime was still cross with me when she and Telesilla came to join us. I tried a second time to work out how to broach that sensitive subject with Hyanthidas.
‘Do you think—?’
He turned to me, frowning. ‘Do you know when each of these poets arrived in Athens?’
I shook my head. ‘No. Why?’
‘This woman didn’t wait for the festival, to run away while the household was distracted with comings and goings,’ the Corinthian pointed out. ‘The Boeotian was murdered the day before yesterday. So she must have fled with her lover before that. That means one of the poets who was already here in the city must be the guilty man, if he carried her off from her home, and whoever was her guardian has been hunting them both since then.’
‘Of course.’ Now he’d said that, it was obvious. Perhaps I could recall a few details of who had arrived on what day, if I gave it some thought. That must have come up in some of my conversations. Then there were the poets with homes in Athens. We should take a closer look at them. My hand went to my belt before I remembered I had given those lists I’d made to Dados, to pass on to Lydis.
‘I will let Aristarchos’ secretary know first thing tomorrow. He can make those enquiries while we enjoy the athletics.’ While I really would make every effort to put this wretched business aside, I told myself firmly.
‘Let’s hope that sets the Scythians on the killer’s trail.’ Hyanthidas was looking towards the back of the stage building. He stood up. ‘Well, that’s the musical competitions over with.’
I saw people streaming out of the theatre along the paths leading away to east and west. ‘I’m so sorry.’ I was stricken with guilt. ‘You’ve missed the rest of the pipers.’
Hyanthidas laughed. ‘I don’t need to hear them. As long as I know I did my best, I’m content.’
From his unfurrowed brow, it seemed he really was. I was pleased for him, though I didn’t understand how he could be so calm. I’m like a mouse surrounded by ferrets while I wait for a drama competition’s results.
I was nearly as nervous about seeing Zosime. ‘Where are we meeting the others?’
‘Here.’ He grinned. ‘I knew I’d need a drink after playing at the Great Panathenaia.’
Perhaps that strong half-cupful explained his serenity. I tried to emulate his mood. When I couldn’t, I gathered up our empty cups and took them back to the wine-seller, who was serving a lengthening queue of thirsty customers. This sacred space behind the stage was filling up, with chatter and laughter rising as competitors greeted their families.
As I headed back to the temple steps, I saw Menkaure, recognisable thanks to his height and dark complexion. Even at a Great Panathenaia, there aren’t so very many visitors from the far south of Egypt. He was with Zosime and Telesilla, and I altered my path to cut across their own. Zosime saw me coming, and she smiled briefly, though her eyes were shadowed.
I held out a hand as soon as we were close enough for her to hear me. ‘I’m so sorry.’ I hoped she could see I was apologising for yesterday and for last night, as well as for being so late today.
She shrugged by way of an answer, and I couldn’t work out what that meant. She took my hand though, so my spirits rose a little.
Menkaure wasn’t smiling. ‘What delayed you so badly?’
Before I could decide how to answer him, Telesilla spoke up.
‘Let’s go and find somewhere to eat before the taverns get too busy.’
I saw her glance from me to Zosime, and wry amusement teased the Corinthian woman’s full lips. Then she winked at me, so it seemed she was on my side.
‘Good idea.’ Oblivious to all this, Hyanthidas slipped his arm around his beloved’s shoulders and smiled cheerily.
We began walking back to the heart of the city. At least Zosime was still holding my hand. I felt her fingers tighten, so I squeezed gently back. As the five of us negotiated a path through the crowds there was no point in trying to talk, so I had time to get my thoughts in order.
Chapter Twelve
When we found a free table outside a favourite tavern, I was ready for Menkaure’s curt question.
‘Well?’ the Egyptian demanded.
‘The Scythians have learned something new that might help them catch this killer.’ I shared the story of my day for a second time.
Menkaure was unimpressed. ‘But you still have no idea who this man is, or where to look for him.’
Clearly, he wasn’t convinced that I would be leaving this matter to the festival commissioners and the city magistrates, even after I’d stressed the way I’d handed off responsibility to Dados. I’d told them I’d left the Scythian to watch over the poets, and to see that Aristarchos and Melesias were told of the latest developments. Apprehensive, I looked at Zosime to see if she thought the same.
My beloved looked ruefully at me. ‘But you have to see this through.’
Caught unawares, I
stared at her. ‘But you said…’
‘You said this dead Boeotian could well have a family who deserve to see justice done. You’re right about that.’ Zosime glanced at Telesilla.
‘I know what it’s like to wait for letters from someone who’s working far away.’ The Corinthian woman drew Hyanthidas close with her arm around his waist, and rested her head on his shoulder. ‘When you don’t hear for a while, for longer than you expect, you tell yourself not to worry. You tell yourself it’s just that he couldn’t find someone travelling back home right now, or he’s been too busy to find the time to write. Even so, you can’t help the doubts and fears that creep into the back of your mind. What if the worst has happened? If I had ever heard – if a Visitor’s Advocate had ever turned up at our gate—ʼ
She shook her head to ward off such thoughts and looked straight at me. ‘I would hope and pray that the gods would find someone in that distant place to hunt down a killer on my behalf.’
Zosime managed a faint smile for me. ‘Just promise me that you’ll be careful. Don’t risk meeting this man on your own.’
‘I will, I mean I won’t, I swear it,’ I said fervently. The two women must have talked through last night’s quarrel. Of course Telesilla would have seen that Zosime was upset and asked why. I felt as if a weight I hadn’t known I was carrying had been lifted from my shoulders. I wasn’t going to be at odds with Zosime if I pursued this murderer. That was a relief because telling the tale again had rekindled my keenness to see justice done.
Menkaure still wasn’t looking happy, so I guessed he’d been arguing this was still none of my business. Before I could find anything to say that might persuade or reassure him, Zosime glanced at Telesilla.