by JM Alvey
‘Of course.’ I’d seen the same rebellious glint in Ikesios’ eyes. Possibly because I shared the youth’s irritation.
Aristarchos nodded. ‘I’ll send Lydis to find you up there as soon as we get any answer to my letter.’
‘He can bring back word of anything you need to know.’ I went on my way.
Even walking quickly, I wasn’t fast enough to catch up with Ikesios. Either that or he had taken another route to avoid the roaring crowds in the agora. I could hear the rivalry for places in the finals of the men’s foot races was intense. That’s one undeniable advantage athletic contests have over drama, epic performance or musical competitions. The first one over the line, or the one who’s chucked a discus or javelin furthest, is indisputably the winner.
I took a street that joined the Panathenaic Way as it cuts between the Areopagus and the Acropolis. A short distance down the road, I headed up a path to the Pnyx. There were a fair few people strolling up the hill, ready to enjoy the final day of battles and tragedies before the Argives and the Trojans find some measure of common ground in their grief. Homer understood the true price of warfare, and he is honoured at the Great Panathenaia for that, especially by those of us who’ve marched into battle.
I made my way to the assembly area, and walked along the edge of the crowd. To my relief, I soon spotted Menkaure and Hyanthidas. Together with Telesilla and Zosime, they were sitting away to one side. They might not have the best view of the speaker’s platform, but they were where they knew they would be easily seen. As I went over to join them, I was pleased to see the Corinthians had brought some blankets to sit on.
Zosime held out a hand as I approached. I sat down behind her, sliding my legs around her hips. I slid my hands around her waist and rested my chin on her shoulder as she leaned back against me. The day’s performance hadn’t long begun, and the poet up on the stone platform was giving us a powerful rendition of Odysseus brokering the reconciliation between Agamemnon and Achilles.
Zosime twisted slightly so she could brush my cheek with her lips. ‘Where’s Ikesios?’
‘Here, I hope. He came on ahead of me.’ I looked around.
When I saw the youth, my heart sank. He wasn’t sitting down to relish the entertainment. He was standing with a knot of other poets, and they were intent on their conversation. Judging by Ikesios’ gestures, and the sour looks they were getting from the audience close by, some heated debate was under way.
‘He’s none too pleased at the prospect of waiting for the law to take its course to the Areopagus Court.’ As far as I could see, nor were the other poets. There were far too many grimly nodding heads for my peace of mind.
‘I can hardly blame him,’ I said heavily. ‘If Damianos takes himself off into exile rather than face his accusers, all of Athens will know he’s guilty, but that’s a meagre measure of justice.’
The Furies had been so determined that I should pursue this killer. I tried to tell myself that they wouldn’t let him slink away.
Hyanthidas was sitting with his arm around Telesilla. He followed my gaze, and frowned. ‘The boy knows the killer’s name, but not where he lives? There’s a limit to the mischief he can make with that, isn’t there?’
‘I hope so,’ I said fervently. ‘As long as one of the Athenian poets doesn’t recognise the name, and happens to know where to find Damianos.’
The day went on. Events before the gates of Troy so long ago unfolded before us. Eupraxis took to the platform, and the audience sat breathless and motionless as he told of the gods drawing up on either side to intervene in the war. Then Achilles joined the battle and the slaughter began. We know the story, but hearing every detail and every death so vividly described makes it strike home anew every time. Eupraxis’ performance was outstandingly good, full of action and passion as he strode around the platform gesturing with his staff. Half the audience would have awarded him the winner’s garland there and then.
I could see that because I kept dragging my attention away from the compelling recitation to keep an eye on Ikesios. He and the other poets did at least do Eupraxis the courtesy of watching him in respectful silence. I could see uncomplicated admiration on their faces, as well as a few more thoughtful expressions. The likes of Theokritos could see they had a serious rival for glory and prizes.
Achilles swept across the battlefield, as destructive as a forest fire searing a parched mountainside. His horses’ hooves crushed the bones of the dead like grains of barley trodden by broad-browed oxen on the threshing floor. Red-handed, he drove his blood-spattered chariot onward. The audience drew a shuddering breath as Eupraxis fell silent, motionless in the centre of the stage.
As a storm of applause erupted, I saw Ikesios and his cohort immediately resume their council of war. I got to my feet as people around us started moving to take advantage of the brief pause before the next poet took to the platform. The rest of the audience waited, avid to hear the tale of Achilles’ rampage provoking the river Skamandros to confront him.
‘I need to know what they’re talking about,’ I told Hyanthidas. ‘If you see Lydis, tell him not to tell Ikesios or any of the other poets where Damianos lives.’
Not that I imagined the slave would be inclined to share any information that his master had requested, but I had to be sure.
Hyanthidas was seeing the same warning signs as me. He nodded. ‘I will.’
I made my way around the edge of the crowd to reach the knot of poets. By the time I drew close, Achilles was recognising Lykaon, prince of Troy, as a man he’d already captured once and sold into slavery on Lemnos. As we all know, Achilles wasn’t impressed to see him back at the battle.
As the poet up on the platform gave us the young prince’s heart-rending appeal for mercy, Ikesios saw me approaching. He came to meet me, and we walked a little further away, to escape scalding looks of irritation. When people have already devoted two long days and late nights to following the entire performance their patience for interruptions wears thin.
‘We have a plan.’ Ikesios was bright-eyed with eagerness.
‘Tell me.’ I tried to look encouraging.
I needed to know the worst so Aristarchos and I could work out how to foil any hare-brained scheme that might lead to more bloodshed, or to Damianos learning he was suspected and escaping before he could be accused.
‘Remember how Hector was fooled, when Patroclos wore Achilles’ armour? Hector pursued him, not knowing he was chasing down the wrong man?’ Ikesios grinned. Clearly, it didn’t occur to the youth that we might try to dissuade them. ‘If Damianos hears that Posideos is coming to the city, he won’t be able to resist trying to find him. We can offer him someone to follow and overwhelm him when he tries to strike. There’ll be countless witnesses to see us catch him in the act. The magistrates will have to commit him to the city prison for public violence.’
If that happened, the magistrates might very well order the Scythians to hold Damianos in the city prison until his trial. Perhaps this wasn’t such a mad idea, though I could still see plenty of potential pitfalls. ‘I remember Patroclos ended up dead. Who’s volunteering to be killed this time?’
Ikesios shook his head, stubborn. ‘Daimachos, Hermaios and Polymnestos were caught unawares and alone. This time we’ll be ready for this bastard. Besides, he wants information more than he wants blood. He won’t kill before he’s tried to beat his sister’s whereabouts out of the man he thinks is Posideos.’
‘How will he hear the news that Posideos is here – supposedly?’ I tried for a tone of mild enquiry.
‘We’re already talking about it. How much we’re looking forward to seeing Posideos and his lovely wife. What a lovely surprise their unexpected visit will be, as they join us to enjoy the second day of the Odyssey.’ Ikesios’ gesture swept past the poets he had been talking to and took in every man who’d performed in the Iliad.
I told myself the chances of Damianos overhearing poets gossiping on the Pnyx had to be slim. Unless he was
already sitting within earshot, unsuspected. We still didn’t know what he looked like.
Ikesios’ next words killed that frail hope as dead as some poor Trojan in Achilles’ path.
‘We’re going to Koele tomorrow, to split up and visit every tavern we can find. Four or five of us at a time, we’ll share a jug of wine, and talk about Posideos so that everyone can hear what we have to say.’
So the youth had thought this through. Adrasteia’s flight from home must have been a local scandal, and I didn’t imagine it had been forgotten since then. I wouldn’t wager a sixteenth of an obol against somebody passing the news on to Damianos, whether they were genuinely trying to be helpful, or they enjoyed throwing a lit oil lamp into a heap of brushwood. Every district has both breeds of busybodies.
‘I see.’ I didn’t want to start an argument to ruin the ongoing performance for the people close by. ‘So you expect he’ll come up here the day after tomorrow. But how will he know who to attack?’
Ikesios looked at me as if I was an idiot. ‘Because everyone will be greeting Posideos by name, with loud cries of welcome.’
‘Damianos will hardly attack him in full view of the audience.’
‘Of course not.’ Ikesios was getting impatient. ‘He’ll follow whoever our man is when he leaves, looking to catch him unawares. Only he won’t know that we’ll be following him. He’ll be taken by surprise, just like that priest of Nemesis.’
For the first time, I thought I saw a flaw in their plan, or at least something to give these fools pause for thought. ‘Who is going to play this part? How do you know Damianos won’t already know who he is? He’s been stalking epic poets for days.’
For the first time, Ikesios looked uncertain. ‘We’ll find someone to help us.’
‘Right.’ I tried to hide my relief. At least they had to solve that challenge before they could go any further. I swiftly prayed that divine Athena bless anyone they asked with the sense to say no.
‘I’ll leave you to it.’ I nodded a brief goodbye. ‘Good luck.’
I made my way back to the others. Keeping my voice low, I told them what I’d learned.
‘That’s madness,’ Hyanthidas said flatly.
‘Someone will get hurt,’ Menkaure agreed.
‘Or killed,’ Telesilla said grimly.
‘Or Damianos will see it for a trap,’ Zosime observed. ‘If he does, at very least that’ll put him on his guard. At worst, he’ll flee the city. Then Daimachos, Hermaios and Polymnestos will never see justice and Adrasteia will never be safe.’
‘So we have tonight and tomorrow to come up with a better plan of our own.’
I looked at the four of them and saw everyone was as much at a loss as me.
Chapter Eighteen
Darkness had fallen. We sat through the tragedy of Hector’s death, so powerfully delivered that the vast audience fell silent. As Andromache mourned her lost love and grieved for the future that lay ahead for their young son, the stillness up on the Pnyx was broken only by faint rustles and hastily stifled sobs. Melesias Philaid had really known what he was doing when he allocated his chosen poets their episodes.
Meantime, I had devised absolutely no arguments that would persuade Ikesios and the other performers to abandon their reckless scheme to catch Damianos. Unfortunately I hadn’t had any better ideas to find some damning evidence that would prove the bastard’s guilt. I was only growing more apprehensive that this murderer would somehow escape punishment for his crimes, at least as far as Athens’ courts were concerned.
The audience stirred as the poet left the speaker’s platform. Everyone braced themselves for Patroclos’ funeral and the games to console his weeping spirit. I was about to ask the others if they’d had any inspiration when a hand tapped my shoulder.
It was Lydis. ‘Excuse me, please.’
‘Of course. Sit down. Behind him.’ I looked hastily across the audience as I sought to hide the slave behind Hyanthidas’ greater height. To my relief, there were enough lamps here and there to show me Ikesios wasn’t looking this way.
I wasn’t reassured though. I saw that first gathering of poets had gone their separate ways. Now several clusters of men in dark cloaks had their heads close together. It was a safe bet they weren’t assessing the dramatic delivery of the epic. I had to do something, and I had to do it fast. The more poets Ikesios recruited, the harder it would be to stop this plot before it ended in some disaster.
I turned to Lydis. ‘Do you know where Damianos lives?’
Well trained, he didn’t ask questions. ‘Yes.’
‘Take me there, now.’ I stood up and looked at the others. ‘We’ll see what we can find out tonight while that lot are still celebrating the conclusion of their Iliad. We can discuss what to do first thing tomorrow.’
‘Be careful.’ Zosime’s face was shadowed with apprehension in the dim light. ‘Both of you.’
‘We’ll just be seeing what his house can tell us about the sort of man he is,’ I assured her. ‘So we can make some plan in the morning.’
I led Lydis down a path that would keep him as far away from Ikesios as possible. As we left the Pnyx I explained why. I could only hope Aristarchos could think of some way to thrust a spear through the spokes of the poets’ chariot wheel.
We hurried past the Piraeus Gate and on into Koele. It wasn’t very far. On the other hand, to my relief, Damianos Sethou’s house was in the depths of the district, within sight of the city walls. If Ikesios and his allies began with the first tavern they came to tomorrow, it should take them a fair while to reach these streets. With luck, they wouldn’t be making an early start after drinking late into the night with their devotees.
I fixed the route in my mind as we walked. When we arrived, I studied the closed gate that Lydis indicated. I wanted to be certain I would know it again. There was a lit lamp waiting for someone to come home, so I could see the wood was sturdy and well painted. There were no scuffs or splinters at the bottom to hint at hinges needing repair. There was no way to see over the wall to the house though, not without attracting attention. These streets weren’t busy, but they weren’t deserted.
I turned to Lydis. ‘Go home. Tell your master everything. I’m going to see what I can find out that might prove useful. I’ll share whatever I learn with him first thing tomorrow. I will be very careful,’ I added before he could caution me, on his master’s behalf or on Zosime’s, come to that.
‘Very well.’ The wiry slave didn’t look happy, but he did as he was told.
I watched him trot away and satisfied myself that no one strolling home or out to see friends had paid any particular attention to our conversation.
Once Lydis was out of sight, I went in search of the nearest tavern. Ikesios was right about one thing. Taverns are where neighbourhood rumours gather like bees around a blossoming tree. I wanted to know what was being whispered about Damianos. Before I went inside, I fished my purse out of my tunic, or rather, the purse of Aristarchos’ silver that Lydis had handed me so early this morning. Even after keeping the tavern owner out in Ankyle happy, there should be enough in there to encourage a wine-seller to share a little gossip, always provided he could spare the time from his other customers.
I blessed Athena, and just as swiftly apologised to Dionysos, when I walked into the tavern and saw that this evening’s trade was brisk without being hectic. Locals coming home from the athletics competitions and the Homeric recital were enjoying a festival drink, but this place was too far off the beaten track to be flooded with passing trade. Judging by the relaxed atmosphere, that suited the locals and the tavern keeper perfectly well. It looked like a comfortable place to spend an evening. The floor and tables were clean and there was a lingering savoury scent from whatever food had been served earlier in the evening.
More importantly, the place had clearly been well-established for years. Adrasteia’s flight must have been a topic for gossip around these tables. I hoped the current tavern keeper had been here to he
ar it. He was a burly man, taking a few moments’ ease between mixing jugfuls from the amphorae of wine stacked against the wall behind him and the stone storage jar for water firmly fixed in the earth of the floor.
I picked up a stool that wasn’t being used and walked over to take a seat a few paces away from his table of jugs and cups. ‘A full measure of your finest amber, please. One of wine to four of water.’ I held up two obols. That should reassure him that I had silver to spend, but I wasn’t here to get roaring drunk and cause trouble.
The tavern keeper assessed me with a knowing eye, grunted, and dipped a jug into the water jar. He set it on his table and added wine from an amphora with practised ease. At his nod, a slave who was circulating to refill jugs and retrieve empty cups carried a small table over and set it down at my elbow.
The boy brought me my wine and I offered the first sip as a libation to Athena. Taking a sip for myself, I found it was very good and the mix was neither too strong nor too weak. Deciding that was a good omen, I nodded my approval to the tavern keeper.
I could see he was waiting for me to explain my business. He’d been in this line of work long enough to know I hadn’t crossed his threshold by chance. I looked around the tavern. No one else was interested in me, and the hum of conversation was sufficient to cover whatever I might say. I decided on a direct approach.
‘Are you acquainted with Damianos Sethou? Is he drinking in here tonight?’ I didn’t want to lay everything out only to find our foe had been sitting on the other side of this room listening.
The tavern keeper looked thoughtfully at me. ‘He doesn’t drink here. I know him, though I wouldn’t say we’re friends.’ His face and his words were impartial, but there was a hint of a question in his tone. He wanted to know what Damianos was to me before he committed himself.
I took another drink. Like the tavern keeper, I kept my tone light. ‘Would you say he’s a man with a bad temper?’