Justice for Athena

by JM Alvey

  He grinned. ‘Are you heading out to the racecourse to see if Xenokrates wins?’

  He clearly wasn’t planning to go. ‘What are you doing instead?’

  ‘I’m in training for the hoplite and chariot race.’

  The event that takes the aristocratic love of a man risking his neck to honour the gods to new heights. I supposed I shouldn’t be surprised. Hipparchos wasn’t a coward, but he needed to curb his tendency to act first and think later.

  ‘Are you driving or running?’

  His smile widened. ‘I’m running.’

  The heroes celebrated by Homer might have ridden their chariots into battle, but I had been content to go to war on my own two feet. Hipparchos’ event would see him riding in a chariot in full armour down the Panathenaic Way from the Dipylon Gate. Then he would jump out to run the stadion course through the agora, before getting back into the still-moving vehicle for the dash to the finish at the Eleusinion at the foot of the Acropolis. The only thing I would relish less would be the challenge of being the driver in such a race, but since I’ve never been rich enough to learn how to handle a chariot team of two or four, that was never going to happen.

  ‘Good luck,’ I said fervently.

  I didn’t care if he won. I’d settle for him not breaking his neck or being crushed under a chariot’s wheels. Aristarchos had lost one son in the same ill-fated military expedition that had killed my brother. The family didn’t need more grief.

  ‘See you later.’ He waved farewell to us both, and went on his way.

  Apollonides watched him go. ‘Were you able to teach him anything?’

  Playing tutor to the boy for a few months, I’d shown him how I composed speeches for men going to court, or wrote eulogies to honour the departed at funerals. Having him at my heels all day had been amusing and tiresome by turns. Still, I’d been happy to do Aristarchos that favour.

  ‘Not to trust his so-called friends just because they’re rich and well-born, and to look below the surface of tempting words.’

  I fell silent as Aristarchos’ gate opened and he emerged with his wife on his arm. His other two sons escorted their three sisters. Their gold necklaces and hair adornments gleamed in the sunlight and embroidery brightened their crisp dresses. The Phytalids were dressed for a day of leisure among their wealthy friends I was glad to see Xenokrates had enough sense to watch the horses he had bred and trained, rather than risk his own life and limbs holding the reins as they competed. Ambrakis guarded the rear of the procession, flanked by slaves more than formidable enough to make any would-be street thief think better of it.

  I should have realised Aristarchos would have commitments today. Then he saw me and promptly gestured, first to acknowledge me, and then to tell us to stay put. He spoke briefly to his wife. She was already looking far from festive, and her expression darkened as she glanced in our direction.

  Aristarchos removed her hand from his arm and walked towards us. As his family went on their way, Lydis stayed in close attendance on his master’s wife along with the other slaves. Only Ambrakis held back, ready to escort Aristarchos as soon as he was required.

  ‘Please offer my apologies to your wife,’ I said hastily.

  ‘She’s just irritated that she can’t use her litter today.’ Aristarchos smiled without much humour.

  I decided not to ask if the slaves to carry her in curtained privacy weren’t available because they were up at the Pnyx, or if Aristarchos had forbidden a show of what a great many people consider a Persian indulgence.

  ‘We have news.’ I ran through everything we had learned since yesterday, as well as the poets’ plan. I spoke as fast as I could, but it was still a lot of news. Aristarchos’ family and friends were out of sight before I had finished.

  He sighed. ‘It’s not as if I can forbid this. I’m not even sure that the Archons could, or the festival commissioners – or that they would want to. Melesias is frantic to see this killer caught. He would be easily persuaded this is a good idea.’

  He nodded at Apollonides. ‘Good luck. You can have Ambrakis and any other slaves he wants to muster, first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I didn’t hide my relief. ‘We’ve recruited Menekles and Lysicrates as well.’

  ‘Very wise.’ Aristarchos knew them both from our rehearsals, when he’d been patron for my first Dionysia play.

  ‘We did ask them to meet us here.’ I hesitated.

  Aristarchos smiled, this time with genuine warmth. ‘Tell Mus to expect them.’ He turned to be sure that the giant door slave was watching us, and I guessed his gesture indicated we were to be admitted.

  ‘We shall be out at the races for the rest of the day,’ he went on, ‘and we’re dining elsewhere this evening, but you may consider my household at your disposal.’

  ‘You are very generous,’ I said gratefully.

  ‘Just make sure you plan for every eventuality. Tell Mus everything I need to know.’

  He summoned Ambrakis with a snap of his fingers, and the two of them walked away. I noticed Aristarchos didn’t seem in any particular hurry to catch up with his family.

  ‘It’s useful to have powerful friends,’ Apollonides observed lightly.

  ‘Very,’ I agreed.

  Mus let us in and we were given seats in the shade of the outer courtyard’s colonnade. A slave was summoned to bring us whatever we might need. I felt awkward calling him Illyrios, but I knew that was the name Aristarchos’ wife gave every male slave. Apollonides and I began discussing how events tomorrow might play out. Since we’d both spent years watching comedies and tragedies at the Lenaia and the Dionysia, before either of us started writing and acting, we could imagine a great many possibilities.

  Just before noon, there was a knock at the gate. We looked across the courtyard to see Mus admit Lysicrates and Menekles. They came to join us, cheerfully curious.

  ‘What’s going on then?’ Lysicrates looked at us both.

  ‘Apart from an excellent excuse to get away from a house full of relatives for an afternoon.’ Menekles grinned.

  ‘Oh, it’s an epic tale,’ Apollonides assured them.

  Our friends’ good humour faded as we explained. First we told them about the series of murders. They hadn’t heard anything about these deaths. There was no reason why they should have, of course. It wasn’t as if they knew any of the epic poets personally. They weren’t rehearsing a play and picking up the latest news from the chorus men, or the rumours running around costume and mask makers’ workshops. Both men had been enjoying the festival with friends and family, and neither had any particular interest in the Iliad or the Odyssey competitions.

  We laid out the poets’ plan to trap Damianos. The two actors were incredulous. Then they were loud in their objections. Apollonides challenged them to come up with alternative suggestions. I laid out the impossibility of proving the murderer’s guilt beyond all doubt in any other way. Telling them how Damianos had surely killed his Sardinian slave to be certain the poor bastard couldn’t betray him finally silenced them both.

  ‘All right, you’ve made your point,’ Lysicrates said crossly.

  Menekles heaved a grim sigh. ‘So what can we do, to make sure this doesn’t end up as a hopeless comedy of mistake piled on misunderstanding, or worse, some bloody tragedy with dead poets all over the Pnyx?’

  ‘A rabid dog’s most dangerous when he’s cornered,’ Lysicrates observed.

  I wasn’t going to argue with that. ‘Here’s what we’ve been discussing so far.’

  Unsurprisingly, our friends had plenty to add. The slave brought us food and drink, and we ended up using olive stones on the tabletop to imagine where different people might be. Finally, we were as satisfied as we were going to get with our plans.

  ‘Of course, after all this, he may not even show his face.’

  Lysicrates was trying to make a joke, so we dutifully smiled. Then we looked at each other, at a loss to know what to do next.

  ‘Some win
e?’ Menekles suggested.

  We quenched our thirst, and I told the others the news from the friends we had made in Corinth that Hyanthidas and Telesilla had brought us. It was a relief to talk about something besides violent death for a little while.

  ‘If they’re up at the Pnyx watching the Odyssey, why don’t we go and join them?’ Lysicrates suggested.

  Menekles nodded. ‘We can remind ourselves of the lie of the land.’

  I saw that Apollonides agreed. ‘Let me talk to Mus first, while you finish the wine.’

  I told the big slave what Aristarchos and Ambrakis would need to know, and we went on our way. When we reached the Pnyx, there was a substantial audience for the performers in blue cloaks to thrill with the tale of Odysseus’ trials and tribulations. I couldn’t see any red cloaks. Those poets must be down in Koele throwing their bait into the water. I could see a few Scythians, but no more than I would usually expect to be watchful for trouble at a festival.

  We found Zosime, Menkaure, Telesilla and Hyanthidas sitting close to the spot they’d claimed yesterday. We’d agreed on that before I’d left home. The actors and I settled down to enjoy the rest of the day as the performance went on through the evening and into the night.

  As Odysseus visited the Underworld, I wondered what rebukes and reproaches Damianos would face when he passed from this life to the next. Then the wily Ithacan and his men evaded the lure of the Sirens, and escaped the horrors of man-eating Scylla and the vortex of Charybdis, thanks to Circe’s warnings. Well, most of them escaped, but disaster struck after the crew were driven by hunger to slaughter and eat the cattle of the sun, despite knowing that was forbidden. I pondered all the things that could go wrong tomorrow, if one of our supposed allies did something stupid, even after all our warnings.

  Odysseus finished telling his tale to Alcinous and the Phaeacians and lay down to sleep. That’s where the first day’s performance ends, so we headed for our own beds to do the same. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day.

  Chapter Twenty

  We didn’t have to get up early, so it didn’t matter that we’d hadn’t reached home till long after midnight. The first of the blue-cloaked poets wouldn’t take to the speaker’s platform until the heat of the day had passed, and Damianos couldn’t start hunting his prey before then.

  Washing and dressing quietly, I left Zosime asleep. Out in the courtyard, I found Kadous humming a tune as he looked for eggs in the hen coop.

  ‘You’re cheerful.’

  The Phrygian’s grin widened. ‘I won several good wagers. Tyren lost a fair sum betting on the wrong chariots though.’

  I shrugged, non-committal. My father had taught me and my brothers never to wager silver we couldn’t afford to lose. ‘Who won the foot races?’

  I would be looking for work as soon as the festival was over, and clients often like to chat about such things. Kadous was about halfway through an epic recital of the athletes’ contests when the bedroom door opened and Zosime emerged.

  I turned to offer her a kiss. ‘Have you decided if you’re coming into the city?’

  We had agreed that she would steer clear of the Pnyx. If serious trouble erupted, the actors and I would be distracted by worrying if she was safe.

  She shook her head. ‘I’ll stay home and work at my loom like a good Penelope. Dad’s seeing some friends from Thebes, and I don’t fancy another day sitting in a tavern.’

  ‘I’ll be home as soon as I can,’ I assured her.

  ‘Make sure you come back with good news.’ Her tone was light, but her eyes were serious.

  Kadous served us breakfast, and then I headed for the Itonian Gate. The road was busier than it had been on any day of the festival so far. That often takes visitors by surprise. The musical and athletics contests are open to all comers from the Hellenic world, so surely they’ll draw the biggest crowds? These fourth, fifth and sixth days of the eight are for the purely Athenian contests between teams drawn from our ten voting tribes.

  What these visitors don’t realise is these are the most important competitions as far as we are concerned. These contests happen annually, not just every fourth year for the Great Panathenaia. Families from clear across Attica will make the journey to arrive today, as even the smallest one-donkey village owes its allegiance to one of our ten legendary heroes. Every city district has partners in the countryside and on the coast to make up its voting tribe, to make certain that everyone’s interests are represented in the People’s Assembly.

  I knew Hyanthidas and Telesilla would be going to the theatre to see the warrior dance contest, where armed and armoured teams display the dexterity and precision that could save their lives in battle. The Corinthians had admitted they wanted to see that spectacle even before we had decided there was nothing they could do to help today.

  Up on the Pnyx the second day’s performance of the Odyssey hadn’t started, though Melesias and the judges were already enthroned up on the speaker’s platform. Across the assembly area, citizens and visitors alike were settling down to enjoy the entertainment with keen anticipation, and I could see blue-cloaked poets here and there. I found a quiet spot where I wouldn’t get in anyone’s way, where I would seem to be watching the recital while I was looking out for Damianos.

  Today red cloaks were scattered through the audience like poppies in a field of corn. Apollonides was standing by a pastry-seller’s handcart with a wine cup in his hand. Only four or five of the Iliad’s performers were with him. We had agreed that he mustn’t be surrounded. Damianos had to see some opportunity to strike.

  Those poets were coming and going, with only Eupraxis staying by Apollonides’ side. Each new arrival greeted the actor; calling him Posideos with convincing surprise and delight. Perhaps my friends from the theatre and I had been unfair when we’d had our doubts about their acting abilities without a well-rehearsed script. They seemed well able to improvise.

  Apollonides wasn’t wearing a red cloak of course, but the voluminous green cloak he had got from somewhere certainly stood out. As far as I could see from this distance, he was playing his part with the ease and commitment I had expected. Along with Menekles and Lysicrates, we had put a plausible story together to explain Posideos’ travels for the past four years. Since the poets hadn’t heard any of this, there was nothing feigned about their interest. Their laughter turned nearby heads as he shared a few jokes.

  So far so good. Now I concentrated on the rest of the wide space. I saw a few Scythians, but like last night, there were no more of them in attendance than any Athenian would usually expect. I was glad to see Kallinos and Dados, and guessed we had Aristarchos to thank for that. I saw Ambrakis, who was making a convincing show of gawking at the crowd like someone on his first visit to the city. I couldn’t pick out any of Aristarchos’ other slaves as I had no idea what they looked like. I could only trust they’d made their own arrangements to act as soon as they got my signal. I really hoped Mus had passed on those instructions correctly.

  I couldn’t see any sign of Damianos. A disconcerting number of men who might have been him snagged my eye, but every time I looked more closely I didn’t recognise their faces. I grew more and more uneasy. Yesterday I’d been confident that I would know the killer again. By the time the first poet took to the speaker’s platform, I was seriously doubting myself.

  I managed to sit reasonably still through Odysseus arriving back on Ithaca, and meeting Pallas Athena. I listened attentively as she warned him what to expect from the suitors infesting his house while they besieged his wife. I was one of the first on my feet once the goddess had disguised the long-suffering hero as a filthy old beggar, and before the next poet stepped up to relate the Prince of Ithaca’s meeting with the humble yet noble-hearted swineherd Eumaeus. I had to walk off my anxiety.

  Easy to see in his green cloak, Apollonides was still standing with his supposed friends over by the pastry cart. I couldn’t tell which trio of poets were with him at present, and I didn’t waste time trying
to recall their names. A few moments later, I saw Apollonides was moving, heading away down the hill. He must be heading for the nearest public latrine. With this hilltop used for so many public assemblies, that wasn’t far away. The Archons long ago must have worked out how far a man was prepared to walk for a piss and how far was too far, so he’d sully some quiet corner instead.

  We had discussed this possibility, though I had no way to know if Apollonides was prompted by genuine need or if he’d had enough of this pretence and wanted to see if he could draw Damianos out. Eupraxis didn’t go with him, as we had agreed. Men seldom want company on such errands, and anything out of the ordinary risked stirring the killer’s suspicions that all was not as it seemed.

  I saw Menekles strolling after our friend, staying just close enough to keep Apollonides in view. I walked casually over to take Menekles’ post. That was on the other side of the assembly area from the spot where I’d been loitering. The tall actor had picked a good vantage point. I got a clear view over the audience, though I still couldn’t see Damianos. I could also look down the path running down the hill towards the alley that led to the latrine.

  As I glanced down the slope, my blood ran cold. Wearing a dark brown tunic, Damianos was walking up the hill. My memory for faces hadn’t deserted me. I knew it was him, no question. In the next breath, I realised he wasn’t coming up to the assembly area. His attention was on the alley where Apollonides – or as he thought, Posideos – had just gone.

  In the blink of an eye, I guessed what must have happened. Damianos had been up on the Pnyx earlier and I hadn’t spotted him. He’d seen Apollonides being greeted by the poets and had marked him down as his prey. Then he’d retreated down the hill and found somewhere to watch and wait. He knew the wine our friend was drinking would eventually demand release. Now he was moving in. We thought we were lying in wait for the killer, but he had set a snare of his own.

  My mouth was as dry as dust. That wasn’t a possibility we’d discussed, and there was no time for me to go and buy a cup of wine. I worked my jaw and rolled my tongue around my teeth. When I felt some spit flowing, I licked my lips. I whistled a three-note trill pitched high to rise above the murmur of the crowd. We hadn’t had time to find the Scythians and learn their Euboean shepherds’ secrets, but we’d agreed this would be good enough. This signal would tell the actors and Ambrakis that I had recognised Damianos.