by JM Alvey
I nodded. ‘Then go and enjoy the athletics.’
I looked at my slave for a moment. Would he kill for me? He’d certainly fight to defend me, and had done, more than once. He’d proved his loyalty to my family time and again. But if I tried to order him to help me commit cold-blooded murder? Kadous would abscond and not look back, I had no doubt of that. He might even find a way to warn my victim, if he could do that without risk of being caught. I wondered what manner of man this killer could be, to have such a fearsome hold over his household.
Zosime stood up and offered me her hand. I took it and we walked to our bedroom in silence. We didn’t bother taking a lamp. As we stood toe to toe in the darkness, I could hear Kadous out in the courtyard, and Menkaure in the room next door, but all that mattered was the two of us here.
I rested my hands on her hips. ‘I’m sorry.’
She slid her arms around my neck. ‘So am I.’
She kissed me, and I kissed her back, deep and long. But I still had to know, when we broke apart to catch our breath.
‘What changed your mind?’
Zosime rested her hands on my chest, and laid her head on my shoulder. ‘Telesilla and I were talking about what happened in Corinth. How Myrrhine would have suffered if you hadn’t found out how Eumelos had really died. I thought about Xandyberis’ family in Pargasa. They wouldn’t have seen justice done for his murder here without you.’ She sighed. ‘If the Furies see fit to give you these tasks…’
She didn’t sound too thrilled about it though. I didn’t blame her. Nor was I. But I was even less keen on the idea of drawing down divine displeasure by shirking such responsibility.
‘I will be careful,’ I promised her. ‘I swear it by Pallas Athena.’
‘This woman…’ she began.
‘If she wants to stay hidden, I won’t reveal where she is. I’ve already promised my mother. And you were right to send me to ask her to help. She will see what she, Melina and Glykera can learn about any recent runaway, so we can find this killer. That’s what matters most of all.’
I kissed her again. This time, when Zosime pulled away, she unpinned one of the brooches holding her draped dress on her shoulder. As the cloth slid away from her breast, she cupped my hand around her silken softness. I kissed her, and felt her smile as she enjoyed my caresses.
I reached up and slid the other brooch off her shoulder. Zosime stepped back and unknotted her belt to let her dress fall to the floor. I tossed my belt aside, well away, so neither of us would tread on the buckle in the darkness, and pulled my tunic over my head. I heard the lid of the box where she keeps the sponge and olive oil that keep her safe from the hazards of pregnancy.
Zosime drew me down onto the bed, and we made love slowly and silently, mindful of her father on the other side of the wall. That didn’t matter. We didn’t need to talk. We’d said all that we needed to. Now we understood each other perfectly once again.
Chapter Thirteen
When we reached the agora the next morning, I noticed Menkaure glance up towards the Temple of Hephaistos. Then I realised he wasn’t looking at the temple, gleaming white in the sunlight on its hill, but at the squat and solid building just to the north of it. The city uses that for a variety of purposes. When Athens is at war, it’s a weapons store. In the run-up to the Great Panathenaia, and during the festival, it’s where those prize amphorae of olive oil are kept secure.
‘Do you want to see the handiwork offered up to the goddess by your rival potters?’
Menkaure looked at me, startled. Then his grin was as good as an admission. ‘I could take a look, I suppose. If they let me in.’
I was pretty sure the public slaves guarding that considerable wealth would recognise a man who’d helped them stack the precious delivery from one of the workshops awarded the honour of so much hard work. ‘You may as well ask. They can only say no.’
‘Go on,’ Zosime urged. ‘We’ll be waiting for the others by Aphrodite’s altar.’
‘Oh, very well.’ Menkaure headed quickly along the southern edge of the agora.
He’d have to go as far as the road that led to the city prison, and then turn to follow the edge of the marketplace past the Council Chamber and other civic buildings. There was no hope of heading straight towards the temple hill from this opposite corner of the agora where we had arrived. Packed crowds were intent on the foot races, as ten competitors at a time pounded up and down the racecourse that runs the length of the agora from north to south. A full stadion of two hundred strides is permanently marked out, with toeholds for the athletes at the start carved into the stone paving. There would be judges up there, watching closely to make sure no one stole even the slightest advantage by moving before the brass trumpet’s note released them. The single sprint competition for the boys was reaching its climax, as successive heats decided who would race in the final.
Not that we could see any of this. The dense throng completely blocked our view. We could only tell what was happening from the cheers and roars as we continued along the Panathenaic Way. I looked at Kadous. The tall Phrygian was trying to see over the crowd. The youths would be next to race today. As well as competing in the single sprint, they would try for glory and the more tangible rewards of olive oil in the double sprint, and in the gruelling twenty-stadion race. A second set of judges at this end of the track would make sure every runner completed the full course before turning to head back to the start again.
‘Go on,’ I told him. ‘Come back home whenever you like, today or tomorrow.’
‘Thanks.’ He grinned and slipped between two onlookers as a space opened up between them.
Zosime and I continued on our way. The Painted Colonnade was packed with spectators and the steps were crammed with people eager to get a better view of the races. They were shouting encouragement and cheering on their favourites.
There was a wine-seller close at hand and we bought a measure of undiluted sweet wine. Aphrodite’s altar is close by, and we weren’t the only ones here to make an offering to the goddess of love and desire, so we had to wait a few moments before we could approach the magnificent carved stone altar.
I offered glorious Aphrodite silent thanks for bringing Zosime into my life. I vowed to do better by my beloved. Finally, and fervently, I asked for the goddess’s help in finding this unknown woman before the man who was so ready to kill tracked her down. The gods only knew what violence he had in mind.
Then I added a prayer for this woman herself. Whatever her guilt or troubles, the goddess of passion would know the truth, just as she would know the guilty poet’s real motives. If he was a cynical seducer, I invited Aphrodite to goad him with whatever torments she saw fit, to make him confess.
I passed the half-full jug to Zosime, and she made her own libations. A brief smile teased her lips, and the sight warmed my heart.
‘Good day to you both! Have you been here long?’
I turned to see Hyanthidas wave as he shouted a greeting from the end of the Painted Colonnade steps. ‘Not really. You?’ I called back.
‘A little while. We’ve been watching the races, then she swore she’d seen you.’ He hugged Telesilla close. ‘As always, she was right.’
‘I’m glad to see all’s well with you.’ Telesilla smiled at Zosime, and I reckoned she was talking about more than spotting us in the crowd.
‘Let’s get out of the way.’ Zosime stepped aside to let another supplicant approach Aphrodite’s altar.
I took the empty jug from her, and the four of us walked back to the wine-seller to return his property.
Hyanthidas looked at me, more serious. ‘Have you called on Aristarchos?’
‘Not yet.’ I had to raise my voice above the noise.
Zosime squeezed my hand. ‘Go on. I’ve got company now.’
I hesitated. ‘What if he expects me to run some errand? What if he sends me to go and find out when each these poets arrived in the city?’
She shrugged, resigned. ‘You ha
ve to see this through. We agreed that. Just be careful, please. Promise me.’
‘I will, I swear it.’ I kissed her. ‘You are more than I deserve.’
She smiled. ‘Don’t you forget that.’
Hyanthidas had moved so he was standing behind both women. He was alert and ready to fend off unwanted advances from opportunists in the crowd. ‘Watch your back.’
‘I will,’ I assured him.
I made my way out of the agora. Aristarchos’ house wasn’t too far away, and it was pleasant to arrive without being breathless and sweaty for a change.
Mus slid back the grille in the gate when I knocked, and opened up immediately. ‘The master will be glad to see you.’
The big barbarian wasn’t smiling, and his tone was sombre. My heart sank and I wondered what had happened now. ‘Where will I find him?’
Before Mus could answer, Lydis appeared in the archway across the courtyard. His expression lightened with relief and he beckoned me over. I tried not to look too apprehensive. That became a whole lot harder when I walked into the inner courtyard and saw Kallinos the Scythian with Aristarchos and Ambrakis.
‘Good. I’m glad you’re here.’ Aristarchos was exasperated, though clearly not with me. ‘I have to go out, but Kallinos has news that warrants further enquiry.’
‘Another body’s turned up.’ The Scythian was scowling as if this was a personal insult.
I felt sick. ‘A poet? Who?’
Kallinos glowered. ‘We’re not sure. That’s to say, we don’t know if he’s a poet. He’s not one of the ones we’ve been traipsing around after. He wasn’t wearing a red cloak, but he was killed with an epic performer’s staff, like Daimachos. Well, not quite like him. He died quickly, then the killer ran for it. Anyone who knew this man should still be able to name him, if we can only find the right people to ask.’
He looked at Aristarchos. ‘But I can’t spare more than a couple of men to go knocking on gates. Not and send enough to make a presence up on the Pnyx again, even with Ambrakis and your men, and Melesias Philaid’s slaves to help us. We still have to keep the peace in the agora for the races as well as at the pentathlon. Then there’s the wrestling, the boxing, and the no-holds-barred bouts. Those crowds can get very rowdy.’
I raised a quick hand. ‘Ambrakis, can you find out when the poets arrived in the city?’
He looked at me blankly, then looked at Aristarchos.
‘Why?’ his owner asked.
I quickly explained my reasoning, or rather, I shared what Hyanthidas had realised about the timing of this unknown woman’s disappearance.
‘We should have thought of that sooner.’ Kallinos shook his head. ‘But there’s still been no hint that one of them might be sneaking off to some lover they’ve got tucked away.’
I thought about what Zosime had said about the different things men would admit to a slave, to a fellow citizen, or to a potential patron. Perhaps I was going to have to ask such intrusive questions myself. I fervently hoped news of yet another murder would loosen someone’s tongue instead.
‘Do as Philocles asks,’ Aristarchos told his slave. Then he looked at me. ‘Can you go and help Kallinos put a name to this dead man?’
‘I can try.’ I didn’t want to tempt the Fates or Furies with overconfidence.
‘I have every faith in you.’ Aristarchos paused for a moment. ‘I have to go and meet the delegation from Pargasa. They’re here to collect Xandyberis’ bones, as well as to make their case to the Archons, before the magistrates reassess our allies’ levies. You found his killer by the gods’ good grace,’ he reminded me. ‘Let’s pray they favour you again.’
‘As you say.’ Zosime had already mentioned the dead Pargasarene who had been dumped at our gate, and she had reminded me how I’d uncovered the truth behind Eumelos’ killing in Corinth. Perhaps Kallinos had been divinely inspired to come and find me, when the first of these poets had turned up dead. Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, thrice is a hint from the gods.
I looked at Kallinos. ‘Let’s go.’
Perhaps the Furies had known how readily I was going to yield to them. The dead man was lying in an alley not far into the Diomea district, so it wasn’t a long walk. One of Kallinos’ underlings was standing guard over the body. The young Scythian’s scowl and heavily accented warnings were barely keeping the growing crowd at bay.
Like Daimachos, the dead man was sprawled on his back. Unlike the Boeotian, his face was recognisable, even though the killer had used his fists on his victim, just as he had done with Thallos. A broken staff lay in two pieces beside the body, easily identified as a performance poet’s prop by the crook on the end. From the blood in the dead man’s dark hair, it seemed obvious the polished wood had cracked his skull.
‘When was he found?’ I glanced at Kallinos.
‘Early this morning, by a slave carrying night soil out to the middens.’
The victim was a man in his prime, neither handsome nor ill-favoured. He was wearing a creased tunic frayed along the bottom edge, as well as old sandals he must have mended himself because no professional leatherworker would do such a bad job. But his hair and beard were neatly trimmed, and as I stooped to take a closer look, I saw his hands were uncalloused and his nails were well-kept. I caught the scent of some expensive perfume.
‘He wasn’t poor. He was just comfortable wearing his old clothes while he was at home.’
As I spoke that thought aloud, I straightened up and looked around. I soon saw what I was looking for. A bundle of salad leaves was scattered along the base of a wall, a short distance away. The agora might be off limits to vegetable-sellers for the rest of the Great Panathenaia, but the smaller local markets would still be busy. People still have to eat, and a lot of foodstuffs don’t stay appetising for long in this hot weather.
‘He lives near here. He was only going to buy some fresh greens, so he didn’t need to dress to impress anyone he might meet.’ I swallowed anger at the sadness this morning would bring to some unsuspecting household. ‘Someone’s waiting for him to come home.’
Then I realised something else. ‘The murderer must have been waiting for him. This can’t have been a chance encounter. The man we’re hunting must have known his habits. He must have known his victim would go out bright and early to buy his own provisions.’
‘Did this poor bastard bring the staff, or did the killer?’ Like me, Kallinos was thinking aloud, rather than expecting me to know.
I answered all the same, looking at the corpse. ‘I could believe he was an epic poet. If he’d heard what was going on, he might well have taken his staff for protection.’
‘And the bastard used it instead.’ Kallinos glared at the dead man.
It seemed a little unfair to blame the victim for his own murder. ‘If he hadn’t had it with him, this killer would have used his knife, don’t you think?’
I didn’t wait for the Scythian to answer. I walked towards the end of the alley where the gawkers were gathered. This crowd was mostly men, from greybeards to pimply-chinned youths. There was no telling who was slave or free, though it was probably safe to say the few women were either slaves or resident foreigners.
As those standing closest nervously began to retreat, I halted before they all scattered like wary hens. ‘Does anyone know of an epic poet who lives somewhere around here? A well-regarded performer? One worthy of competing in the Great Panathenaia?’
Someone I couldn’t see said something I couldn’t make out.
‘Please.’ I raised my voice. ‘By the gods above and below, help us put a name to this man. Help us see his murder avenged.’
Me confirming that this was a crime rather than some incomprehensible accident sent a shiver through the crowd. People began moving away, slowly at first, then more quickly as their paths away from this horror cleared. To my relief, not everyone was so eager to be gone before the Furies arrived to take note of their presence. As the street cleared, a handful of men remained, grim-face
d.
A short, burly individual stepped reluctantly forward. ‘I may know this man, but as Athena is my witness, I have no idea what has happened here.’
‘We believe you,’ I assured him. ‘We just want to know who he is. Can you help us?’
I stepped to one side, with my arm outstretched to invite this good citizen further down the alley. He walked as slowly as someone wading through mud. He stopped a spear’s length short of the body and heaved a sigh.
‘Polymnestos Anytou. He lives a few streets away.’ He had no doubt about the dead man’s identity.
‘Do you know his profession?’
Our good citizen pointed at the broken staff. ‘He’s – he was an epic performer, and a good one. Don’t let that ragged tunic fool you. He liked to plead poverty when he haggled in the markets, but he made a good living here in Athens and at other cities’ festivals. He would usually spend at least half the year on the road.’
‘But he wasn’t competing in this Homeric contest?’ That had to be significant, surely?
Recollection prompted a sad smile from our informant. ‘He wrenched his ankle when he was giving our district brotherhood a recital of The Seven Against Thebes at the last Anthesteria. He’d been honouring Dionysos at the first opening of the new vintage a little too enthusiastically. It was a bad sprain, and he’s suffered from weakness on that foot for months. Taking his performance staff everywhere became a habit.’
He sighed again. ‘He didn’t put himself forward for this year’s Great Panathenaia. He said he would prefer not to compete, rather than risk offering an inadequate performance. I think he didn’t want his reputation to suffer, if people saw him holding back, compared to his recital last time. I’m still surprised that he didn’t win.’
‘At the last Great Panathenaia? He competed then? Offering an episode of the Iliad?’ I had to be certain. I hadn’t set foot on the Pnyx four years ago.
The good citizen was taken aback by my forcefulness. ‘Yes. He gave us the death of Patroclos. He was tremendously good, most impressive. We all thought he should get the winner’s garland.’