by JM Alvey
Kallinos walked over to talk to us. ‘I’ll stay here to keep watch for the moment, but can you please leave word at the prison? Tell them I want a couple of men sent here to take my place?’
Once again that was much closer to an order than a request. Once again, I nodded. ‘Of course.’
Lysicrates and I began walking, with Ambrakis bringing up the rear. I checked the sun and saw time was passing unhelpfully fast. I tried to force our pace on, but that was none too easy. Citizens and visitors alike were heading for the agora, to secure a good view of the torch race. I could hardly blame them. It is a tremendous spectacle.
As the city prison came into sight, I turned to Lysicrates and pointed. ‘Will you deliver Kallinos’ message to whoever’s on duty, and give them directions to Damianos’ house? That doesn’t need two of us, and I really want to see Aristarchos if I possibly can.’
He nodded. ‘Go ahead. We’ll see you by the altar.’
I hurried onwards. The agora was crowded. Men with that indefinable air of self-importance that marks out district brotherhood officials were walking up and down the Panathenaic Way, to keep spectators from getting too close. The torches would pass from hand to hand as the competitors were entering the agora. Ten fresh runners would be poised every sixty strides, ready to receive one of the sacred flames for the next stretch of the race. The last thing anyone wanted was someone stumbling into a sprinter’s path.
I managed to dash across the broad roadway with only a couple of scorching glares by way of rebuke. I headed for Aristarchos’ house, but now I was going against the flow of people. As I dodged and sidestepped, I got more filthy looks from would-be spectators than I’d had from the race stewards.
I might as well have saved myself the effort. When I got there, Mus slid open the grille and shook his head. ‘The master’s entertaining in his private dining room, and no one else is receiving visitors.’
‘Oh.’ I was unsure what to do. The only thing I knew for certain was there was no point in arguing with Mus.
‘Have a good night.’ He closed the grille.
Oh well. My latest discoveries would have to wait. It wasn’t as if these details would be painted on the white board that would be hung up for all to see when Damianos was formally accused. Those blood-red letters would simply warn him to keep away from temples and public ceremonies as well as the law courts and public meetings, to avoid polluting the well-being of our democracy with his guilt. Everyone would know what that meant though. He was accused of murder.
I might as well join my friends for the night’s festivities. I headed back to join the crowds in the agora. The altar to the twelve gods is on the other side of the Panathenaic Way, and there was no chance of getting over there so close to the start of the race, but that didn’t concern me. The torch race is a great and sacred spectacle, with each tribe’s finest sprinters giving their utmost to honour the gods and their fellow citizens. That means it’s over more quickly than any other contest. I could wait for the last torches to go past, when everyone headed for the Acropolis.
Meantime, I worked my way through the throng to a point opposite the altar, and looked for familiar faces by the entrance to the gods’ enclosure. I soon realised that was impossible now that the daylight had gone. There were no lights burning to rival the sacred flames as they passed by.
All around me, heads turned as we heard the roar of the race approaching. The noise ebbed and surged like waves crashing on to a beach. There was no way to know what those cries of exultation and alarm might mean. Had one racer outstripped his rivals? Had a promising lead been lost as passing the torch from hand to hand was fumbled? Had a flame flickered and guttered, only to recover its strength? Had a torch died to leave a trail of bitter smoke choking a team along with all their supporters’ hopes? Had a runner tripped and fallen, weighing down his entire tribe with that appalling omen?
The eager onlookers at the entrance to the agora raised a deafening cry. I saw the first glow of the approaching torches. Gasps and cheers told us when the next handover began. The first runners came into view. The leader had to judge his speed against the risks of extinguishing his flame, and I didn’t envy him. I could see the strain on his face as he held the torch at arm’s-length, with the flame streaming back towards him. The light gilded the sweat glistening in his hair and on his naked chest. Two runners were hard on his heels, grim-faced with equal determination to win. The rest weren’t far behind.
The flickering light showed me glimpses of the faces on the far side of the roadway, clustered around the altar to the twelve gods. I caught sight of Menekles, usefully taller than the rest. That helped me pick out Apollonides close by him, though Lysicrates was nowhere to be seen. I saw Eupraxis with the actors, still wearing his red performer’s cloak. Then the final runner of the ten pounded past.
As the light of the athlete’s torch lingered, I saw someone else. Damianos was in the crowd on the other side of the road. He wasn’t watching the race. His attention was fixed on my friends and I saw murder in his eyes. Then the torches were too far away to shed any more light and shadows cloaked the killer.
I stood, chilled with fear amid jostling and sweating Athenians and visitors. Everyone was eager to get to the foot of the Acropolis to see who had won the race. I stayed where I was, as best I could anyway. People knocked me with elbows and shoulders in their haste to follow the rest of the runners who were now crowding the roadway as they hurried after their teammates. I closed my eyes against the afterglow of the bright flames. I needed to recover my night sight as soon as I possibly could, if I was to find Damianos again in the summer starlight.
Thoughts raced through my mind, as fleeting as the torch flames. I pictured the scene I had glimpsed. Was I imagining things or had Damianos’ attention been fixed on Eupraxis? What could that mean?
One explanation presented itself. Damianos’ neighbours said he was as quick-witted as he was vengeful. We knew he’d been finding out where the epic performers lived, to catch them alone and unawares, and attack. He had seen Eupraxis with Apollonides earlier and it was presumably no secret that the poet was lodging at the bronze foundry. Had Damianos been lurking in those side streets, keeping watch on the foundry gate before following Eupraxis here?
I had no way to know, but my gut told me that was so, because another realisation made me suddenly nauseous. Damianos had followed Eupraxis in order to find Apollonides again. I was sure of it. He still thought the actor was the man he was hunting. He thought he was Posideos. There was no way he could have learned different. We hadn’t captured the killer and revealed our stratagem as we had intended. No one else could have told him about our subterfuge.
Damianos still believed he’d found the man he wanted to kill. So here he was to kill the poet who had outraged him by offering Adrasteia a refuge. His neighbours had said Damianos would do whatever he must to ruin anyone who bested him, however long it took. He had been brooding over his humiliation for the past four years. I’d been an utter fool to imagine he would flee Athens before he secured his revenge.
I had to warn Apollonides. I let the surge of the crowd carry me along the Panathenaic Way and past the Areopagus. Cheers ahead told me someone had won the race, but with all due respect to Athens’ ancient and honoured heroes, I really didn’t give a toss which voting tribe had just won next year’s bragging rights. I had to catch up with the actors.
‘Philocles!’
I recognised that voice. That was a man well used to being heard above a laughing audience and reaching the highest seats of a theatre with the next joke. I looked around wildly and yelled back. ‘Lysicrates?’
‘Over here! Over here!’
As he continued shouting, I got a bearing on his words. The crowd was still streaming past me, but the first urgent rush had slowed. People were more spread out, and it was easier to see individual figures in the gloom. As I approached, I saw Ikesios was with Lysicrates.
I didn’t waste time. ‘I saw Damianos.’
‘You’re sure?’ Ikesios was startled.
Was I? I revisited that brief glimpse in the torchlight. Yes, I was. ‘Certain.’
Lysicrates didn’t doubt me. ‘Where?’
‘Following Apollonides and Eupraxis. He still thinks he’s Posideos.’
Lysicrates’ face told me I didn’t have to explain. ‘They’re heading up to the Acropolis.’
‘With Menekles.’ I nodded. ‘I saw him too.’
Ikesios looked unsure what to do. ‘Will Damianos follow them?’
‘Yes.’ Lysicrates had no doubt about that.
I began walking with the rest of the throng. ‘Keep a look out at the edges of the crowd. If he does head off somewhere else, we should see him go.’
But I was as convinced as the actor that this killer wouldn’t give up his hunt now.
We walked at the same pace as everyone else. I didn’t want to force a path through the crowd and somehow overtake Damianos or cause a scuffle that might alert him. What I was desperate to do was warn the others. For the moment, I had no idea how. I racked my brains as we went on towards the altars that stand in the rock-cut shrines at the foot of the Acropolis.
The Panathenaic Way kinks like a dog’s hind leg as it reaches the fountain house at the base of the towering rock’s north face. That’s where the spring sacred to the nymph Empedo flows into a broad basin. Men and women were stopping to cup a handful of sweet water to quench their thirst. The sun had gone down, but the summer night was still warm and humid.
Torches had been lit now the race to Eros’ altar had been won. Flames dappled the crowd’s faces with shifting light and shadow. I saw several things in the blink of an eye. The first was Damianos, clearly recognisable from his height and heft. He had paused by the fountain basin, either to take a drink or to pretend to do so. He was staring past the shoulder of rock on the far side of the spring.
I followed his gaze towards the junction of the Panathenaic Way and the long slope of the broad path that leads up to the Acropolis’ heights. The procession led by the victorious torchbearer had already made the sharp turn. The first figures were approaching the monumental gateway built in Peisistratos’ time. An eager crowd was following them and many revellers were carrying their own torches. I couldn’t see Menekles anywhere, but I was able to pick out Apollonides, still wearing that baggy green tunic, as well as Eupraxis. The poet’s cloak was the hue of old, clotted blood in the firelight.
‘Wait.’ I put a hand on Ikesios’ arm. Lysicrates waited by my side until Damianos started moving again.
As soon as the killer started walking, I relaxed my hold on the youth. We walked to the fountain. As I took a drink myself, I watched Damianos head up the slope. He was taking longer strides now. I looked towards the gateway that offered admittance to the sacred rock’s long, wide summit. A sizeable contingent of Scythians was drawn up on either side. They were standing at their ease for the moment, but everyone knew they wouldn’t hesitate to quell the first sign of trouble.
I watched Apollonides and Eupraxis pass between them and head onwards through the monumental gate. As the actor and the poet vanished from sight, I looked back down the slope to pick out Damianos. For a few heart-stopping moments I couldn’t see him, then I caught sight of a tall figure, hurrying faster than everybody else. He slowed as he approached the gate, careful not to attract undue attention from the Scythians.
I turned to Lysicrates and Ikesios. ‘Come on.’
The three of us were enough to make an arrowhead with Lysicrates on my left and Ikesios to my right. Ignoring muttered indignation and louder objections, we sliced a path through the crowd, reached the turn and headed on up the slope.
As we approached the gate, I scanned the ranks of the Scythians for a familiar face. I couldn’t see anyone I recognised, but there was no point in cursing that bad luck. The armoured slaves were watching our approach with interest. As soon as we reached them, I headed for the most experienced-looking man. He had ferocious eyebrows and a face as rough and creased as the old leather of his cuirass.
‘My name is Philocles Hestaiou—’
‘I know who you are. I’ve taken my turn standing guard up on the Pnyx these past few days.’ He looked at me, expectant.
‘The man we suspect of murder has just gone through the gate. As long as you don’t let him leave, we should be able to catch him. His name is Damianos Sethou. He’s tall and wearing a dark brown tunic—’
I broke off. We still had the same problem that we’d had on the Pnyx. Only a handful of us would recognise the bastard. He could easily get back out past these Scythians by mingling with the crowd.
The leather-faced slave grinned. He turned to look up the slope. The paved way ran straight ahead, passing between the monumental pillars of the gateway. The Scythian gave one of those ear-splitting, fluting whistles. Then he bellowed so loudly that almighty Zeus must have wondered who’d borrowed his thunder.
‘Damianos Sethou!’
The wily Scythian’s trick worked. The killer stopped dead for a moment and looked over his shoulder, unable to hide his shock at hearing his name. Everyone around him stopped too. Before he could stop himself, Damianos turned right round. He had to know how close his pursuers might be. In that moment I saw him realise every Scythian was staring straight at him. Now they knew what he looked like.
Then he saw me, Lysicrates and Ikesios. I have no idea if he recognised the others, but I could see in his eyes he knew me. He knew I would tell the Scythians what he had done. They wouldn’t let him leave this way.
Damianos turned and fled towards the temples that crown the Acropolis. Ikesios, Lysicrates and I ran after him. Bemused revellers let us pass.
Chapter Twenty-Three
We passed through the monumental gate and took a moment to assess what lay ahead. Right in front of us, the great bronze statue of Athena Promachos gazed out across her city and Attica beyond. Five times as tall as a man, helmeted and wearing her aegis, she holds her spear high. Commemorating her beloved people’s victories in battle, she can be seen by those approaching from land or sea.
Behind the mighty goddess, where her old temple once stood, the ruins left by the Persians have been cleared. Now that broad expanse of ground is overlooked by the new temple being built a little way away to the south. This is where the citizens would gather tomorrow, when the Great Panathenaia’s oxen were sacrificed at Athena’s altar at the far end of the sacred precinct. The sacred flame was already burning on the whitened carved stone.
Choruses of Athenian women were taking their places to honour our goddess for her bountiful gifts and blessings. Just because our wives and daughters don’t compete in public contests, other Hellenes assume they cannot dance or sing. Nothing could be further from the truth and these women would soon prove it, to delight the crowd that already ringed the dancing floor.
‘Where is the bastard?’ Lysicrates was searching for any glimpse of Damianos.
Ikesios was frowning. ‘I can’t see him or the others. They must be somewhere else.’
‘I think so,’ I agreed, and not just because I couldn’t find our friends. There was plenty of light from myriad torches as well as the altar fire at the heart of the Acropolis. Damianos would be an utter fool to launch an attack where everyone else could see him.
‘He does his dirty work in the shadows.’ Lysicrates turned to look southwards, towards the sanctuary that shelters Artemis’ ancient statue. There were torches lit on either side of the steps to the small precinct. We could see mothers accompanied by girls not yet old enough to wed. They were making their offerings to the protector of pregnant and labouring women. Any man, friend or foe, would get stared at if he ventured there.
‘Shit!’ Lysicrates took a startled step back and trod heavily on my sandalled foot.
‘Ow! It’s Menekles, you fool.’
Though I could understand why the actor had been caught unawares when our friend appeared as a tall looming shadow against the flickeri
ng torches.
‘Damianos is here,’ he said urgently.
‘We know, and so do the Scythians at the gateway,’ I told him. ‘They know what he looks like now.’
‘Really?’ That pleased the actor. ‘I was watching to see if he left.’
‘Where are the others?’ Lysicrates wanted to know.
‘They headed for the far side of the altar, where there’s plenty of people and light. Eupraxis realised he was being followed before he reached the agora. Damianos must still be after Apollonides.’
So we had all been thinking the same. But now everything had changed.
‘He can’t get away past the Scythians. The four of us should be able to catch him.’
‘If we can tell Apollonides to get him away from the crowds.’ Menekles shook his head. ‘But he knows what I look like. He’ll see me if I join them.’
I nodded. ‘He must be on his guard now. He’ll suspect a trap.’
‘And he’s seen your face,’ Lysicrates said to me. ‘I’ll do it. He’ll have no idea who I am.’
‘Where do we want to corner him?’ I tried to picture the best place to lure a killer amid the temples and shrines. ‘Some place where there won’t be a crowd for him to hide in.’
Ikesios spoke up. ‘Most people will be steering clear of the Sanctuary of Zeus.’
The youth was right. That’s where most of the oxen destined for sacrifice in the morning would be penned for the night. They would be docile enough, either dutifully resigned to their fate or soothed by a little something extra in their fodder, depending on who you talked to. Still, nigh on a hundred cattle make a fair amount of stink, and we should thank mighty Zeus for putting up with it in order to see his bright-eyed daughter rightly honoured.
‘I’ll tell them to wander off that way.’ Lysicrates headed for the altar before any of us could speak.
‘Let’s take a walk,’ I invited Ikesios. ‘Don’t let people see that you’re looking for someone, but keep your eyes open.’