by JM Alvey
Now the tavern keeper was definitely curious. ‘He’s not one to brawl in the streets, but he’s not a man I would knowingly cross, in business or anything else. He’s well known to hold a grudge for longer than most.’
‘So he’d hardly welcome his sister home?’ I raised the wine jug. ‘Will you share a cup or two with me?’
The tavern keeper studied me for a long moment. Then he picked up his own cup, stood and moved his stool, coming to sit closer to me. He held out his cup, and I poured. He looked at me, deadly serious.
‘She’d be a fool to ever return to Athens. If he gets his hands on her again, he’ll keep her locked up tighter than that poor pullet of a wife of his, and she hardly sets foot outside their gate unless he’s at her side. As for whoever Adrasteia ran off with—’
He shook his head. ‘I say Damianos isn’t a violent man, and he isn’t in the usual run of things, but that’s one subject that anyone who knows him knows not to raise.’ He leaned closer, his voice low. ‘A neighbour made an ill-advised joke last summer, when a wedding was celebrated locally. Damianos thought he was being mocked, and he beat the man nearly senseless. You know, when she fled, the girl made a fool of him? He had already promised her to a business partner?’
The tavern keeper continued. I guessed he thought I had some connection to the fugitives and could get a message to them.
‘He hasn’t forgotten and he’ll never forgive her. He had to be dragged off the poor fool who offended him and pay a good weight of silver to compensate for his bruises and cracked ribs. That was the only way to keep the matter from going to the magistrates.’
‘He could afford that?’
‘Without breaking a sweat. He trades in perfumes, after all.’ The tavern keeper looked mildly surprised I didn’t know.
That could well explain how Damianos had been able to gather information about the poets. Perfume shops are as good as a barber’s if you want to hear the latest news or find out who to ask about something. I laid a few more coins on the table beside my jug as casually as I could. ‘Has there been talk of anything untoward around that household these past few days?’
The tavern keeper looked at the silver, and looked at me. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘A well-respected man whose goodwill is very valuable.’ I didn’t want to name Aristarchos, and I certainly wasn’t about to identify myself.
All my instincts told me this tavern keeper was a man I could trust, but there was no telling who else might be listening to our conversation unnoticed. Damianos might be more feared than respected by his neighbours, but if he could buy his way out of an accusation of assault, he had silver to spare. Someone in here might try earning some money, some goodwill or hopefully both, by telling Damianos a stranger had been asking about him.
I waited for the tavern keeper to make up his mind. The slave came over with an empty jug, and the man rose to mix the customer’s order. I drank some more of my own wine. It really was very good. The tavern keeper handed the jug back to the slave, and stood looking at me. I waited. If he wasn’t going to tell me anything, he could find any number of reasons to be busy elsewhere. Then I would have to go on my way.
After another long moment, my new friend came back and sat down. I could see something was troubling him. I sipped my wine. He would tell me when he was ready.
‘I have heard a few curious things lately, but I won’t swear to any of this in court. Damianos hasn’t had any visitors for this Great Panathenaia, and that’s unexpected. He generally entertains his business partners who come over from the islands for the big festivals. No one’s seen his wife at all and that’s strange as well, because he always takes her with him when he goes to the theatre or to any of the processions or competitions. She’s a pretty little thing, and he likes to show her off when there are plenty of men around to envy him.’
He paused and I couldn’t tell if this was all he had to tell me. Then he heaved a sigh and went on.
‘He has been seen going out and coming home at odd times for the past six or seven days. Some days he’s gone out at dawn and other times, he’s come back well after dark. A few days ago, so I hear anyway, he came back with blood on his clothes. I’ve seen bruises and scratches on his arms for myself.’
The tavern keeper’s glance at his slave betrayed the source of this news. So there was no hope of him coming forward to share what he’d heard when the prosecution was announced. Damianos would insist the tavern slave was tortured to validate his testimony, and my new friend wasn’t having that. Still, surely there could be no doubt that Damianos was the killer.
We just had to prove it. Talking of slaves… I hardened my heart, and was about to ask what the tavern keeper could tell me about the rest of the household when he smashed my hopes like an old pot.
‘He had a favoured slave, a sly Sardinian, who would run his errands. There was some commotion the other day, so I’m told. The next day, the Sardinian was carried out dead, taken to be buried outside the city.’ He glanced at his own slave again. ‘No one much liked him, the Sardinian, but something like that makes people curious, you know? It’s not as if there’s been any recent illness in the district. No one can explain it.’
I felt sick. I could guess what had happened. Perhaps the Sardinian had baulked at being dragged deeper into Damianos’ crimes. Perhaps the killer had realised the slave would betray him if he was accused of assault by Thallos, once the pain of torture overwhelmed the Sardinian’s fear of his master. Either way, Damianos had killed the only real witness to the three murders that we could hope for. Even if the full story of the Sardinian’s death ever came out, it would make no difference. Damianos disposing of his own property so callously might offend the gods, but it wasn’t against the laws of men.
I sighed and poured out the last of the wine for me and the tavern keeper to share. I also laid some more silver on the table beside the empty jug. ‘I’ve never met Damianos and I don’t think we’ll be doing business. There’s no need for him to know that, don’t you agree?’
‘I’ve no reason to speak to him about anything.’ The tavern keeper swept up the silver with one hand, and raised the jug with the other. ‘Some more?’
‘Thank you, but no.’ I stood up. ‘I’ll wish you a good evening, and an enjoyable festival.’
I smiled and headed out. I could see the tavern keeper was still curious, but hopefully he’d see nothing to be gained by gossiping about a nosy stranger. As I walked back towards the Pnyx, I was forced to reconsider the poets’ plan. We had to do something to be certain this murderer would face justice. Catching him in the act looked like the best way to do that. But so many things could go horribly, fatally wrong with that scheme.
Absorbed in my thoughts, I nearly collided with a man heading in the other direction. I sidestepped hastily, but he was so preoccupied that he didn’t even spare me a glance, still less offer any acknowledgement.
I walked on a few paces, thinking nothing of it. Then something I’d seen in the man’s expression made me halt. I’d only caught a glimpse of his face in the light from the lamp on a gatepost, but I had seen that he was angry. No, more than angry. He was furious. Murderously so.
I turned to see the stranger was still within view, striding purposefully away. His hair and beard were dark. He was as tall as Thallos, maybe a little taller, and broader across the shoulders than the poet. I wouldn’t want to face him in a boxing match, still less in a fist fight if I was caught unawares.
I considered where he might have come from. Obviously, he could have spent his evening anywhere in the city. Even so, this street would be his most direct route if he had come down from the Pnyx. What was he so angry about? There could be any number of reasons for that. But perhaps he’d heard that someone he’d been trying to find to settle an old score would be in the city in a few days… Or was I weaving a story out of a passing encounter, the way I did when I was devising a play?
I was walking after the man by now. I soon realised I was retracing the route L
ydis and I had taken earlier. It wasn’t long before whatever god-sent instinct had made me stop walking was proved dramatically right. The man went to Damianos’ house, by which I mean he went home. He had a key to thread through the hole in the gate, and the long brass rod was angled just right to push back the bolt inside. Since I was making sure I was well hidden in the shadows, I was too far away to see if his knuckles were bruised. As he reached up to take the lamp down from the gatepost, I saw a golden gleam from the seal ring he wore. I got a better look at his face as well. As I tried to commit every detail to memory I prayed to the Furies that I’d know him again in the daylight.
He went inside the yard and closed the gate. I heard the rattle of bolts at top and bottom that couldn’t be reached by a key. Damianos was locking up for the night.
I hurried back to the Pnyx. As I went, I rehearsed what I was going to say, first to Ikesios and then to Zosime. If I could convince her that my new plan was our only option, I should be able to persuade Aristarchos tomorrow.
By the time I got back, the assembly area was a very different place now that the Iliad was done. Families and respectable citizens had gone home, though there were still plenty of people about. The wine-sellers were doing a brisk trade and threads of smoke in the air were fragrant with the aroma of little fish being cooked over braziers. Other enterprising vendors had brought their handcarts up here to sell off the last of the day’s bread and pastries, cheese and olives. I bought myself some food and found a quiet spot to stand and eat while I surveyed the scene.
Groups of men and women were lounging on blankets spread out on the ground in loose circles around golden-flamed lamps. Most were laughing and talking as they shared jugs of wine, but here and there, couples got up and took their blankets in search of deeper shadows and more privacy. Girls and women in gauzy draped dresses that did little to conceal their charms strolled from group to group, looking for an invitation from someone willing to pay for their company.
Over towards the speaker’s platform, someone was playing a hesitant tune on his double pipes. Somewhere closer at hand, a singer with a lyre sounded far more confident with a bawdy song.
There was no sign of Hyanthidas and Telesilla, or of Menkaure and Zosime. I realised that shouldn’t surprise me. There was no good reason for them to stay here after the end of the performance, and my beloved would have seen the Scythians who were still around the periphery, as well as Aristarchos’ and Melesias’ slaves. You didn’t have to know that Damianos was tucked up in his bed to be confident any trouble here tonight would be ruthlessly quashed.
Perhaps that’s why the poets were in such high spirits, knowing they were safe from the threat that stalked them. I also recognised the relief that follows a performance. Win or lose, that work is done with. It’s time to relax for at least a little while before starting to wonder what’s next.
A quick headcount satisfied me that all this year’s performers were here. They were the only ones still wearing cloaks in the summer night’s heat, even if the red hue wasn’t clear in the gloom. Some were sitting in twos or threes while others, like Theokritos, were graciously accepting congratulations alone, unwilling to share such admiration.
The poets were ringed by their devotees. From time to time, someone would stand up to declaim a snatch of Homer’s words, or a short passage from some other epic. Those sitting close by would break off their conversations to listen and applaud with the polite concentration of the mildly drunk.
I spotted Ikesios sitting with Eupraxis amid a cluster of muscular young men. As I drew close, I saw several newcomers had bruised faces and grazed knees or elbows. One pentathlete was explaining his regretfully unsuccessful strategy in the wrestling at the Lyceum. Eupraxis saw me coming and nudged Ikesios. The two of them came to meet me.
‘I wondered where you’d got to.’ Ikesios greeted me cheerily, but his high spirits hadn’t come out of a jug. He was still excited about his plan to trap Damianos. ‘We’ve talked to everyone now. They agree this is the surest way to get justice for our friends.’
I nodded and that surprised him. ‘I’ve been thinking about it too. I should be the one to play Posideos.’
I was about to explain that I knew what the killer looked like now, so he couldn’t take me by surprise, but Ikesios and Eupraxis were both still talking.
‘I’m sorry, but if you think he might recognise one of us, the same is surely true for you.’ Eupraxis shook his head. ‘You spend your days in the agora looking for business, and you’ve presented how many choruses in the theatre for the Lenaia and the Dionysia? Even if he doesn’t know your name, there’s a chance your face will seem familiar. If someone else tells him who you are, our efforts to net him will be wasted.’
‘You’re a fine writer, Philocles, and I know you have valuable experience in theatre choruses, but you can’t pretend to be an epic performer. But that’s not a problem.’ Ikesios grinned. ‘We have the ideal man for the role.’
He gestured towards the men they had just left. One saw him wave. The man stood up and waved back, before sitting down to resume his conversation. Even in the poor light, I recognised Apollonides.
However vehemently I wanted to object, I could instantly see the arguments I’d get thrown back at me. Apollonides had once thought of a career as a performance poet, so he could play the part convincingly. No one would know his face. While he was always in demand among Athens’ comic playwrights, he wasn’t a leading actor like Menekles, whose height and commanding presence made him recognisable with or without a mask. He wasn’t a specialist like Lysicrates, whose ability to mimic women from nubile nymphs to withered crones left audiences intrigued to know what he really looked like. Apollonides was a versatile actor who could take on a play’s second or third speaking role and disappear into that character completely.
He was also a genius at physical comedy. He could jump, fall headlong, or swing from the stage crane as deftly as any acrobat. To do that, he kept extremely fit with regular training at the same gymnasium as me. So he was fit enough to hold his own against Damianos, and I knew the reflexes he’d honed in his hoplite days were still razor sharp. He wouldn’t be caught unawares, even if he didn’t know what this killer looked like.
I nodded reluctantly. ‘Okay then. Where are you meeting tomorrow, and when, for your expedition to Koele?’
Eupraxis and Ikesios exchanged a glance that told me they’d definitely expected me to object to them recruiting Apollonides.
Relieved, Eupraxis answered readily enough. ‘At the Piraeus Gate.’
‘We want to stay well clear of the horses and horsemen tomorrow,’ Ikesios added.
That made sense. The two-horse and four-horse chariot competitions would be taking place at the racecourse outside the city walls, along with the races for horses and riders. All the roads and gates heading that way would be crowded with people coming and going.
I looked at my friend, who was laughing and looking very relaxed for a man who was ready to run this risk. ‘Apollonides and I should spend the day together, and discuss a few tactics.’
He might have some idea how to reassure Zosime. As for Aristarchos, I had no idea what he would say.
Chapter Nineteen
I knocked on Apollonides’ gate early the next morning. He opened up, bright-eyed and clear-headed.
‘Come in.’ Closing the gate, he nodded at the slave who’d brought us breakfast on the day before the festival. ‘What did Zosime have to say?’
‘Plenty,’ I said with feeling. ‘If you get yourself killed, she’ll never forgive you – or me.’
‘I have no intention of letting that happen,’ he assured me.
‘Why did you agree to do this?’
He shrugged. ‘Someone has got to put an end to this slaughter.’
‘I can’t argue with that.’ I grimaced.
We sat down as the slave reappeared with some food.
‘Is that why you changed your mind?’ Apollonides took some bread.
Apollonides nodded. ‘They’ve convinced themselves the story will unfold just as they expect and make them the heroes of the day. The thing is, they can all describe a great fight with passion that leaves an audience breathless, but I wouldn’t want them beside me in a phalanx. Three men are already dead and Thallos is only alive thanks to Aphrodite’s intervention. If they’re left to do this on their own, I reckon there’ll be more blood on the streets. They’re performers, not fighters.’
I had come to that conclusion myself. I also remembered how well Apollonides had handled himself when we’d found ourselves pursued and attacked on the streets of Corinth.
‘I’ll be there to back you up,’ I promised. ‘And now I know what this bastard looks like.’
Apollonides grinned as I explained how that had happened. ‘Good to know. You can tell Menekles and Lysicrates.’
‘You’ve enlisted them?’ Zosime would be as relieved to hear that as I was.
‘Not yet.’ He nodded at his slave. ‘I was going to send Parmenon to ask them to come and see me.’
‘Tell them to meet us at Aristarchos’ house. We need to let him know what’s going on. We want Ambrakis and any other slaves he can spare on our side.’
‘The more the merrier,’ Apollonides agreed.
We ate and he wrote brief letters for his slave to take to the other actors.
When we reached Aristarchos’ house, we found the normally quiet street thronged with people. Neighbouring gates stood open as well-dressed families emerged.
‘Philocles!’
I looked for whoever had hailed me, and saw Hipparchos approaching. I was surprised to see Apollonides’ youngest son was wearing a linen and leather hoplite cuirass. He’d have done his military service in the cavalry, resplendent in a gleaming bronze breastplate, since his family was rich enough to bear the costs of keeping horses.