by JM Alvey
I nodded and bit back my exasperation, looking at Kallinos. ‘Will you take the bad news to his family? See that they collect the body?’
It wasn’t just that I had no wish to see any more grieving relatives. I needed to get to the Pnyx as quickly as possible.
‘I can.’ The Scythian looked at me curiously.
‘I’ll explain later.’ I hurried away before either of them asked me any more questions.
I made it before the second day of the Homeric performance started, at the price of getting hot and sweaty. It wouldn’t be long before the recitals began, so I didn’t have time to waste. At least I felt the gods were finally starting to smile on me. Perhaps that was my reward for accepting the duty they had laid before me.
I was right when I guessed Melesias Philaid would arrive bright and early. He was up on the speaker’s platform, chatting to the judges who had already assembled. Those well-born men were smiling and laughing, in complete contrast to the reserved demeanour they would present to the world once the competition was under way. Melesias was doing his best to seem equally relaxed, but his gaze kept flickering from the judges to the growing crowd and, in particular, to the handful of Scythians I could see. I understood his apprehension and I sympathised.
A sizeable audience had already gathered. This second day is an epic in itself, as Hector, Prince of Troy, cuts a bloody swathe through the Argives who oppose him. Those eager to claim their ground for the whole performance were spreading out mats, blankets and baskets. I saw several poets I recognised standing by the wine carts talking to friends and admirers. I was relieved to see Thallos among them. So he hadn’t overestimated his powers of recuperation when he’d promised me he’d be here to perform, though I could see his blackened eyes from this distance.
Bruises aside, I realised it was easy to tell the epic poets who’d performed yesterday from those who still had to display their talents. Those who’d already given their all were much more relaxed, with far wider smiles. Those whose allotted episodes lay ahead had a noticeable tension in their stance, and their smiles didn’t reach their eyes.
I was tempted to go over and start asking questions. No, that would involve repeated explanations before I learned what I needed to find out. Melesias Philaid should know, and he could tell me far quicker. If I could only work out how to reach him.
He showed no signs of leaving the platform, and two men muscled like pankratiasts stood at the bottom of the steps leading up there. They stood shoulder to shoulder, warning off anyone who strayed too near, with scowls like statues of Heracles at his most humourless. I didn’t recognise either of them, but whether they were public slaves, or they belonged to Melesias or Aristarchos, they would have been warned of the threat to the poets.
Since I didn’t know them, they wouldn’t know me. They would hardly risk a flogging or worse by letting me pass on my word alone. I looked around for someone who could vouch for me. To my relief, I saw Ambrakis standing on the edge of the assembly area, surveying the latest arrivals. He was close by an optimistic sausage-seller who was lighting the charcoal in his brazier with some embers he’d brought in a hollow fennel stalk.
I hurried over and waved to get the slave’s attention. Instantly alert, he strode forward to meet me.
I didn’t waste any time, speaking as soon as he was close enough to hear me. ‘There’s been another death. I need to talk to Melesias Philaid right now, if we’re to have any chance of stopping more killing.’
Ambrakis nodded, barely breaking his stride as he veered towards the stone platform. I fell into step beside him. The slaves guarding the steps saw us approaching. I guessed they belonged to Aristarchos, because they simply stepped aside at Ambrakis’ nod.
I took the first step and then realised the bodyguard was about to wait down below for me. I turned and jerked my head upwards. ‘Come on. Your master needs to hear this.’
As Ambrakis followed, Melesias saw me coming. I saw the instant of misery on his face, before he got himself in hand. A moment later, he made his excuses to his companions with a blandly smiling face. His gesture told me to stay where I was, and I did as I was bidden. There wasn’t a great deal of space on the platform, but we might as well do what we could to avoid being overheard. Thankfully the hum of conversation below us wasn’t so very loud. I could keep my voice low as the three of us stood with our heads close together. The noble Philaid was far too concerned to stand on his dignity and insist Ambrakis kept his distance.
‘There has been another death. Not any of this year’s poets,’ I said quickly as Melesias’ face turned ashen. ‘But he was a man who competed at the last Great Panathenaia. Polymnestos Anytou. Did the others who’ve already been attacked take part in that contest as well? Daimachos, Hermaios and Thallos?’
Melesias barely needed a moment to run through the previous competition’s roster in his memory. I’d been right to come to him. As a devotee, he’d be able to recall those details.
‘Yes, they did. Why do you ask?’
‘Because I don’t think this woman the killer is seeking ran away a few days ago. That’s why no one can point the finger at her seducer. No one’s lying. We’re simply asking the wrong question. I think she took advantage of the last Great Panathenaia to run away. Think how much easier she would have found it to flee during the festival with the city full of strangers. No one would think twice about her leaving the house to join the rites, as the city’s women celebrate presenting Athena’s statue with her new dress.’
There are times when you’re writing a play, when a whole host of good ideas besieges you. You know in your bones this comedy will make an audience laugh so hard they’ll be left breathless. What you cannot see, what you cannot contrive, is the best way to fit these ideas together. You have to get these characters into a situation so that someone’s action leads to a consequence that’s both hilariously unexpected, and yet satisfying for the audience. There has to be a thread that leads onlookers through the labyrinth of misdirection and jokes at the expense of public figures that makes for a successful entertainment. Making people laugh in a way that will stay with them long after they’ve left the theatre is a seriously difficult business.
This is what I’d been struggling with for these past few days. I couldn’t come up with any explanation for this eruption of bloody violence that didn’t run straight into a dead end of some contradiction. But now Polymnestos Anytou had been killed. His neighbour had told us about him, and all at once, I’d seen these answers as clearly as Mount Hymettos comes into view when the hot sun burns away early morning mist. I stumbled over my words as I explained.
‘Her husband, or whoever this killer is, he knows or suspects that she ran away with a poet who had been competing in the last Great Panathenaia’s Iliad contest. So he’s pursuing the men who took part last time, not the ones who are performing now. He’s not attacking men wearing red cloaks at random. He’s had four years to learn their names, and to wait until he would see them here in the city again. He’s had four years to plan this, and to brood over the wrong done to him and his family. That’s why he attacked Daimachos so ferociously, and kept on hitting him for so long after he was dead. He couldn’t help himself. Once he started, he couldn’t stop until his fury was spent.’
I shuddered at an unbidden, unwanted memory of the Boeotian’s smashed head. Forcing that away, I went on.
‘Since then, he’s been more careful. He had somewhere in mind where he could take Hermaios and try torture to learn what he knew. But that took too long, and even though he dumped the body near the agora, he must know that no one would mistake that for a death in some drunken brawl. So he’s attacking his targets on the street now, following them until he can catch them unawares and drag them out of sight, with the help of some slave. Maybe more than one slave, after Thallos escaped him. Now he’s gone this far, there’s no going back. He won’t stop until he’s got what he’s searching for.’
As I ran out of breath, I realised Melesias Ph
ilaid wasn’t admiring the way I’d unknotted this tangle. He was looking openly sceptical. That was as unexpected as it was unwelcome.
‘At least half the poets competing in any Great Panathenaia are Athenian citizens,’ he objected. ‘Hermaios and Polymnestos lived here in the city. This killer could see for himself that neither of them was sheltering this woman.’
Melesias was right, as far as that went. There had to be some explanation. I just couldn’t think of it at the moment.
‘Can you at least tell me the names of any poets we haven’t already thought of, who we haven’t already spoken to, who performed at the last Great Panathenaia?’ I tried not to sound too desperate.
Melesias hesitated, still looking very dubious. I thought he was going to send me on my way, to insist we needed to guard this year’s performers, along with those who might be called on to step in. To my relief, he nodded.
‘Soterides Philotherou of Trikorynthos, Artemon of Tiryns, Posideos Kalliphonou of Upper Ankyle.’
‘Do you know if any of them are here in the city?’
But Melesias was looking past me, over my shoulder. I turned my head to see the first of the day’s poets making his way up the steps. He was waving to the crowd, his raised arm setting his red cloak billowing. As he walked along the front of the speaker’s platform, he brandished the crook-ended staff in his hand. The crowd’s idle chatter turned to an eager hum. Everyone settled down to enjoy the thrills as Agamemnon and the Argives joined battle with the sons of Priam.
‘You have to go.’ Melesias was watching the judges settle in their seats of honour. He turned his back on me and strode away, nearly as impressive as an epic performer.
Chapter Fourteen
Ambrakis was already on his way down the steps. I had no option but to follow him. The slave was heading off to find somewhere to stand and watch the crowd as he had been ordered, but I was determined to talk to the closest group of poets. I saw Ikesios was with them, along with Eupraxis. He must have had all the rehearsal they felt he needed.
I hadn’t expected to see the youth, but one thing I’ve learned from my own losses is no two people react the same way to a bereavement. Hermaios’ family would have buried him at dawn today, and their home would be thronged with friends and relatives sharing their grief. Perhaps that’s what Ikesios sought to escape, preferring to remember his lover here. Epic poetry and its performance was the passion that had brought them together.
That thought prompted another. Polymnestos’ home would be a house of mourning as well now, with the family’s festival plans thrown into chaos. I had no idea whether he had a wife and children, or who would become head of that household, and I decided not to ask. Yes, I freely admit, that was cowardly of me, but knowing would make no difference. As the rest of the city celebrated around them, that family would be consumed with grief, bearing the burdens of funeral rites.
That made the task before me very straightforward, however difficult it might be to succeed. These killings had to be stopped.
I hurried after Ambrakis and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Come with me. You’ll need to take whatever we learn back to your master.’ If Melesias wouldn’t listen to me, he wouldn’t ignore Aristarchos.
Thankfully the slave was willing to take my orders. We made our way around the edge of the assembly area as the performance began behind us. Ikesios and Eupraxis saw us coming. As I saw the apprehension on their faces, I gestured. Realising I wanted to talk to them, they withdrew as far as possible to the edge of the crowd.
‘What is it?’ Ikesios asked with dread in his eyes.
There was no way to soften this blow. ‘Polymnestos Anytou has been killed.’ I saw incomprehension equal the shock on their faces. ‘Dreadful as this is, I think it helps us understand what’s going on.’
I quickly set out the reasoning I’d offered to Melesias, as well as some further arguments that had occurred to me a few moments too late when I was going down the steps.
‘This man has waited to strike until this Great Panathenaia, because he wants as many of the poets he suspects here in the city as possible, and he wants the crowds to cover his crimes. If he’d attacked Thallos or Hermaios or Polymnestos at any other time, the likelihood of him being discovered would be so much greater. I don’t just mean his chances of being caught in the act are much less at the moment with the Scythians so occupied. Think about it. If an Athenian poet was killed on the streets going about his usual business at some quiet time of year, his family would start looking for some personal quarrel that might explain it. Some connection might lead them to this man. During the Great Panathenaia this killer could hope these deaths would be dismissed as the outcome of robberies or drunken fights.’
‘If you’re right, then those of us who weren’t competing last time should be safe.’ Eupraxis looked guiltily relieved.
‘Perhaps, but I don’t think this man will hesitate to attack someone if he thinks they can tell him where this woman is.’ I looked both of them. ‘As Athena and the Furies stand witness beside us, can you think of anyone you know who competed at the last Great Panathenaia who could have kept this woman hidden away? Somewhere out in Attica perhaps, or in some other city? Maybe out in the islands? Somewhere he could visit her as he travelled from festival to festival?’
That was another answer I’d realised too late to offer Melesias. Any of the Athenian poets could still be the guilty man. It didn’t matter that they had homes and families here in the city. If they spent half their year travelling from place to place, they could have a second household set up somewhere convenient, and no one else would ever know.
Even Ikesios’ lover Hermaios, could have done this, I realised belatedly. I hoped the youth wasn’t going to take offence at the implication. But his thoughts were elsewhere.
He looked at me, reluctant, but accepting he had a duty to speak. ‘I was going to find you today, to tell you what I heard over some wine last night. Soterides Philotherou has some sort of secret. He keeps disappearing, and he tells different people different stories about where he’s been.’
I stared at him. Perhaps the missing woman was hidden close by after all.
‘Is he here?’ I looked around at the hundreds of people I couldn’t put a name to.
‘Over there, in the red.’ Ikesios pointed to a very well-dressed and well-barbered man laughing with a group of friends. The rings on both his hands gleamed in the sun, and his tunic was a rich maroon thanks to expensive Corinthian dyes. Seen in passing, one might think for a moment that he wore an Iliad performer’s cloak.
‘He took part in the contest last time?’
Eupraxis nodded. ‘He was very good.’ He only sounded a little grudging.
I thought fast. I turned to Ambrakis. ‘Please tell Aristarchos everything we’ve just discussed while I keep watch on Soterides.’
I reminded myself not to rush too far ahead. I had to move quicker than the proverbial tortoise, but I mustn’t make the hare’s mistake. ‘Please ask your master, on my behalf, if Lydis can make enquiries about those three men Melesias told us about. Do you remember their names?’
‘Yes.’ The fuller answer he’d probably have liked to give me hung unspoken in the air.
‘Thank you.’ I had no idea what the secretary would be able to learn about some poet who’d come from Tiryns, but the other two were Athenians. I’d bet a fat purse of silver that Lydis had his own network for trading news and favours with other slaves who were the confidants of the city’s great and good. Though how soon we might learn something useful was another question entirely.
‘What are we going to do?’ Ikesios looked at me.
I could see he was determined to do something, with or without me. I also saw Ambrakis wasn’t going anywhere just yet. He wanted to take the full story to Aristarchos. I thought fast and looked at the poets. ‘Do you think that Soterides will know my face? Does he have any interest in comic theatre?’
Eupraxis looked embarrassed. ‘He considers epi
c performance is the first and only true art. He barely acknowledges the triumphs of tragic playwrights, and says their actors merely trade on debased imitations of our skills. I couldn’t say when I last heard him even mention a comedy.’
He couldn’t say, or he wouldn’t? For a performer, the poet was a poor liar. I guessed Soterides had shared some thoroughly derogatory opinions of my chosen profession. Well, that was between him and the Muses. Though I might find a place for a pompous Homeric poet in some future play… As long as Soterides didn’t get himself horribly murdered. There wouldn’t be a lot of laughs in that.
‘If he has no idea who I am, I’ll keep watch on him until he leaves here. Then I’ll follow to see where he goes. We want to know where he’s staying, for a start.’
Trikorynthos is a long way away out in Attica, almost as far as Rhamnous, so he wouldn’t be making that journey to and fro every day.
Another question occurred to me. I looked at both young poets. ‘Do you know why he’s not competing this year?’
Ikesios could only shrug, but Eupraxis could barely hide his satisfaction as he answered.
‘Oh, he was quite certain he would be invited to take part. He was telling everyone as much, when a whole lot of us were in Delphi last year. He seemed to think the festival commissioners would have forgotten how long and loudly he criticised the judges at the last Great Panathenaia. Of course, ever since we learned who was to be called on, he’s been denying he said any such thing. Apparently we’re misremembering those conversations.’ He shook his head.
Ikesios grinned. ‘I wonder how he explains you and Theokritos being asked to step into the breach.’
‘He’ll have some explanation that flatters him. He always does.’ Eupraxis exhaled with wordless disdain.
I studied Soterides. So now I knew he was arrogant, and I could see how that would count against him with Melesias. As far as the Philaid commissioner was concerned, this festival performance was an offering to glorify Athena, not an opportunity for any individual poet to be adored, not even the winner.