Justice for Athena

by JM Alvey

  ‘Right.’ He nodded, determined.

  It felt strange to be strolling through the throng after our forced march to get here. I glanced apparently idly from side to side. Thankfully, plenty of other people were doing the same. There’s a lot to see. To the south, as well as the shrine to Artemis, there’s a colonnade where bronze statues and other offerings to the gods from grateful Athenians are displayed.

  That’s close to the steps leading up to the front of the great new temple on the highest point of this ancient citadel. Some visitors were walking up to admire the vast new shrine. A great many others were stopping to watch the choral dances as lyre and pipe music filled the air. The rest were either heading for Athena’s altar, or intended to circle around behind it to make some offering at the ancient temple sacred to Erechtheus.

  Menekles discreetly squeezed my hand. ‘There he is. Up by the front corner of the temple colonnade.’

  He was right. Damianos had sought the best vantage point as he looked for his quarry. The man’s arrogance astounded me. He must know he was being pursued, but he was still determined to have his murderous revenge.

  I nudged Ikesios and jerked my head. His nod and the way his gaze sharpened told me he had seen the killer.

  Damianos started walking slowly along the side of the temple, still searching the crowds below. Down on the path, we kept pace with him.

  ‘Careful.’ I laid a hand on Menekles’ forearm to curb his stride. ‘We don’t want to get close enough to catch his eye.’

  The beautiful songs of praise to Athena swelled as we passed by the dancing women. When Damianos had walked three quarters of the length of the great temple, he stopped abruptly. I realised he could see the open space beyond Athena’s altar.

  ‘He must have seen Apollonides.’ I spoke the thought aloud.

  Damianos started walking, faster now.

  ‘We’ll lose sight of him when he goes down the steps at the far end of the temple,’ Menekles warned.

  ‘Come on.’

  The other two shared my urgency as we hurried onwards. As we drew level with Athena’s great altar, I was relieved to see Apollonides some way beyond. He was standing with Eupraxis, and a casual observer would think they were merely sharing some conversation. Anyone who looked more closely would see the wariness in their eyes as they surveyed the crowd swirling around them. There was no sign of Lysicrates. Then I heard a whistle above the festival pipes and singing. At least I thought I did.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ I looked at Menekles.

  He nodded and I knew I wasn’t imagining the signal we had agreed on. ‘Lysicrates has seen him.’

  ‘They’re moving.’ Ikesios hadn’t taken his eyes off Apollonides and Eupraxis.

  We watched them turn their backs on the altar with its blazing crown of flames. Apparently without a care in the world, they walked towards the low-walled precinct sacred to Zeus. The ox pen is on the far side, beyond the altar beneath its portico and up against the north wall of the Acropolis. On this side, closest to us, the path that leads to that end of the citadel passes between the enclosure dedicated to the greatest of gods and the far end of Athena’s new temple. That’s where Apollonides and Eupraxis were heading.

  ‘They’re going to pay their respects to Pandion.’ I stopped walking. If we went any further, we would be too conspicuous. We wanted Damianos to think Apollonides and Eupraxis were alone. As long as we stayed where we were, we would merely be three of the numerous, nameless figures outlined against the altar fires if he glanced in this direction.

  We watched Apollonides and Eupraxis walk on. Pandion’s shrine stands alone at the furthest eastern point of the Acropolis. One of the lofty sanctuary’s most ancient buildings, it commemorates one of our earliest kings. Pandion ruled over Attica long before Agamemnon set sail for Troy. His memory is still honoured at this shrine, and as the patron hero of one of our city’s voting tribes.

  That was presumably why a few other people had ventured this far, and why a lamp was burning in the pillared porch on the temple’s western side. Three men who had just come down those steps were heading back towards the festivities at the heart of the Acropolis. We saw them nod and smile, and presumably wish Apollonides and Eupraxis a joyous festival.

  Our friends walked past the lamplit porch. The walls of the long building ran away into the gloom beyond that pool of golden light. Movement to our right caught my eye. A swift shadow emerged from the darkness between Athena’s temple and Pandion’s shrine. A moment later, Damianos broke into a run. A second dark figure followed, sprinting to catch up. Lysicrates had got behind the killer unobserved.

  Apollonides and Eupraxis were alert for the slightest hint of attack. They spun round, ready to meet an assault. Something in their expressions must have warned Damianos. He turned to see Lysicrates was nearly on him. He sidestepped just in time to evade the actor’s grasp.

  Now Ikesios, Menekles and I were running to join the fray. My gaze met the killer’s for an instant, and I saw recognition in his eyes. With the lamplight from the porch full on our faces, he remembered me and Menekles from the Pnyx.

  Apollonides and Eupraxis were several long strides away. Lysicrates was close enough to try grappling the killer, but Damianos warded him off with a forceful hand. The blow sent the actor staggering back. The rest of us were still too far away to join battle. Damianos sprinted away with a turn of speed that none of us expected. Passing across the front of Pandion’s shrine, he vanished into the darkness beyond the sanctuary dedicated to Zeus.

  I tried to see where he had gone, but all I could see was a mosaic of shifting light and shadow. Breezes set the flames of the lamps in the shrine porch flickering. The sacred fires on the altar burned higher, then sank back without warning. People crossed and recrossed the space all around, casting their own shadows to add to the confusion.

  ‘Where did he go?’ Ikesios was ready to run even if he had no idea which way to go.

  ‘Wait!’ Lysicrates barked.

  ‘Did he have a knife?’ Apollonides demanded as the other three hurried up to join us.

  ‘No.’ Eupraxis shook his head.

  That was no great reassurance as far as I was concerned. Damianos looked strong enough to snap a man’s neck with his bare hands.

  I raised a hand. ‘Listen.’

  The glorious songs and music continued on the far side of Athena’s altar. Closer at hand, I heard something else. Shuffling hooves and muffled lowing offered a low counterpoint to the music. The sacred oxen had been quietly content as long as they were left on their own, but something had disturbed them.

  ‘Get around to the other side,’ I ordered Ikesios, Menekles and Lysicrates. ‘You two, come with me.’

  The actors and the young poet hurried away to circle past the front of Zeus’ sanctuary. Apollonides, Eupraxis and I followed Damianos into the darkness on this side of the sacred enclosure. We moved more slowly as the building blocked the light from the altar fire. We had the lamplight from Pandion’s shrine at our backs, so that was no help to us either. A farmyard smell filled the air, and I could just make out the indistinct shapes of oxen shifting and stamping with irritation. What we couldn’t see was the killer.

  ‘Is there a path around the back of these pens?’ I wasn’t sure who I was asking.

  ‘I have no idea,’ Eupraxis said helplessly.

  Apollonides didn’t say anything, so I guessed he’d never come looking around this end of the Acropolis either.

  ‘If there isn’t, be ready for anything,’ I warned.

  The three of us kept pace, falling into step and guarding each other like hoplites in a phalanx. I would have given a lot to be holding a shield and spear as we advanced into the darkness.

  Glancing to the sides in case the killer was trying to sneak past us, I saw Apollonides squinting into the gloom.

  He pointed. ‘There is a way through. Look over there.’

  He was right. A narrow and uneven path ran between the outer wall of
the Acropolis and the sacred pens. It was wide enough to have offered Damianos an escape.

  ‘Let’s get after him.’ Eupraxis took the lead.

  I followed and Apollonides came after me. As I rounded the dark bulk of Zeus’ sanctuary and the pen of shuffling oxen, the light from the altar fire illuminated the open space ahead of us. As we approached the end of the narrow path, we saw the killer striding towards the Temple of Erechtheus.

  ‘There he is!’ Eupraxis darted forward.

  Before he’d gone five paces, he tripped over something and went sprawling to disappear into the shadows at our feet. Apollonides and I heard a groan. Two groans from two different voices. As Eupraxis scrambled up and dusted himself off, cursing under his breath, Apollonides and I advanced. Searching with our hands, we found a slumped figure on the ground. We quickly stepped over the man and dragged him out into the fitful firelight. He wore the plain tunic of a public slave. Priests on the Acropolis aren’t fools. They wouldn’t leave sacrificial beasts unattended, however docile the oxen might seem.

  I saw blood running down the side of the slave’s grazed face. Damianos must have slammed his head against the stone wall when he encountered the unfortunate man. I didn’t see Zeus looking favourably on that.

  ‘Where are the others?’ Apollonides growled, though his hands were gentle as he laid the slave down.

  I looked for Lysicrates, Menekles and Ikesios, hoping to see them wrestling Damianos to the ground. ‘Over there.’

  I swallowed a curse as I saw them trying to get free of a group of drunk and friendly revellers wanting to draw them into an impromptu dance. There was no one to stop the murderer as he walked briskly past the east-facing entrance to the Erechtheion and disappeared.

  ‘Where’s he going?’ Eupraxis looked at me for some answer.

  I did my best to picture the buildings on that side of the Acropolis, where the rocky ground slopes abruptly down by more than the height of a man. That’s why the Erechtheion is a temple of two different shrines. Up above, our ancient king Erechtheus is honoured with Athena, who raised him from an infant. In return, he has offered her most ancient statue shelter ever since the Persians sacked her old temple. In the other half of the sanctuary below, we remember Erechtheus’ death, struck down by Poseidon’s own trident after our king triumphed in the war between Athens and Eleusis. You can still see the great gouges the god’s weapon left in the rock.

  I couldn’t imagine Damianos would try to hide in there. An instant later, I realised what he must be doing. ‘He’s going to try to find a way out onto the north steps.’

  Beyond the Erechtheion and the sacred olive tree that Athena gave us when we chose her as our city’s goddess, there’s the house for the maidens who weave the goddess’s new gown each year. Just past that, a hidden gate opens on to steep stairs that lead down the north face of the rock to Aphrodite’s shrine and the fountain below. The Acropolis is Athens’ most ancient fortress and as everyone knows, you never build defences with only one exit.

  I grabbed Eupraxis by the shoulder and pointed at Menekles and the others. ‘Go and tell them. Get over there and stop him.’

  He ran off and I turned to Lysicrates. ‘We’ll go around the other side of the shrine. Then we should have him trapped.’

  ‘What about this poor wretch?’ Lysicrates was still kneeling beside the fallen slave.

  I was relieved to see Damianos’ latest victim was starting to stir. ‘There must be priests at the Erechtheion. We can tell them to send help.’ I was already moving. Either Lysicrates would follow or he wouldn’t. I wasn’t going to risk any delay that might let Damianos escape.

  As I passed the eastern entrance to the temple, the actor caught up with me. People by the lamplit entrance stared at us. I had to believe the lack of commotion meant Damianos hadn’t gone in there. We hurried on and reached the steps that overlooked the space between the temple and the north wall.

  ‘There!’ Lysicrates pointed to the paved area where Athens’ women honour our goddess and her ancient statue with rites throughout the year.

  Damianos must have missed his footing in the uncertain light as he hurried down the steps. He was scrambling up from his hands and knees, leaving a dark smear of blood on the pale stone. He must have fallen hard enough to lose some skin, and I blessed whatever deity had tripped him.

  ‘Philocles!’

  Menekles and the others were heading towards us from the other side of the shrine. They must have trampled on toes and elbowed a good few ribs to arrive fast enough to block Damianos’ escape. I also saw a good few curious people were trailing after them, keen to see what was going on. A glance over my shoulder showed me we had an audience gathering as well. More than an audience. We weren’t the only people standing between this killer and escape now. The gods of the Acropolis had sent us reinforcements.

  Damianos could see that he was trapped. Wild-eyed in the fiery light from the torches burning by the temple’s lower entrance, he circled slowly around. I could see he was assessing his options. Surrender clearly wasn’t one of them. He ran towards the great encircling wall and tried to find some hand- or foothold. As he started climbing up to the rampart, horrified gasps and cries rose among the onlookers.

  I suddenly realised that he would hurl himself from these heights if he could. I was tempted to let him. His family would be spared the humiliation of his trial and the execution that would follow, as well as the condemnation they would surely share. It seemed hard that his wife and children would be tainted by association. They were as much this bastard’s victims as the men he had killed.

  He wasn’t given the chance to decide his own fate. Eupraxis and Ikesios were determined to see justice for their murdered friends. The poets flung themselves at Damianos’ back, grabbing at his thighs and waist. His bloodied fingers only had a tenuous hold and he fell backwards.

  He landed on his feet, the bastard. As he staggered, Eupraxis and Ikesios attacked, trying to force him to the ground. Neither poet had the weight or skill to overpower him. Damianos spun round. Ikesios dodged, but Eupraxis was too slow or too blindly dogged as he clung to the killer’s shoulders. Damianos threw himself backwards and crushed the poet against the wall. Eupraxis’ grip loosened and he collapsed to his knees as the murderer strode forward. Ikesios gaped at his fallen friend. That instant of inattention cost him dearly. Damianos punched him hard in the midriff. Ikesios folded up like one of my niece’s rag dolls.

  Not that this helped Damianos. Menekles and Apollonides were advancing more slowly, with the wariness of men used to street fighting. If Damianos attacked either one, the other would be behind him with a free hand to attack. If he tried to dart between them, both would be on him like dogs on a rat. A glance in our direction showed him me and Lysicrates coming down the steps with the same intent.

  He rounded on Apollonides with a snarl that was more animal than human. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘No idea, mate,’ the actor said cheerily. ‘I’m not even the man you’re looking for. We played you like a one-string lyre.’

  There was a moment’s absolute stillness as Damianos stared at him in disbelief. Everyone else who was watching wondered by all the gods what was going on. I could hear the choruses singing and dancing over on the far side of these shrines.

  Then Apollonides’ goad had its intended effect. Damianos charged at the actor with a roar of incoherent fury. Apollonides waited in a boxer’s crouch, braced to fight back. At the very last moment, and with perfect timing, he turned sideways on to his attacker and dropped to his hands and knees.

  Damianos couldn’t stop himself. His shins collided with Apollonides’ ribs. Now the killer’s height and heft turned against him. He toppled forward, unable to save himself. He thrust out his hands instinctively to stop his face hitting the ground. His palms slapped the marble paving and everyone heard the dull crack of snapping bone.

  As the onlookers gasped, I remembered Apollonides telling me about one of his very first lessons from a
n acrobat, when he learned that trick for the stage. Learn to roll and suffer a few bruises instead of breaking both your wrists.

  Menekles and Lysicrates were there to pin Damianos face down on the ground as Apollonides scrambled away. There was no fight left in the killer now. He lay limp and whimpering with pain. I noticed the fine quality of his expensive new sandals and wondered where he had hidden the ones stained with Daimachos’ blood.

  I looked around for the poets. Eupraxis was sitting against the wall, hugging what looked like a couple of cracked ribs. He was alert enough for me not to worry. Ikesios was standing breathing heavily with a hand pressed to his midriff. He must have bitten a lip or his tongue as his chin was smeared with blood.

  ‘Are you fit to go and get the Scythians?’ I asked.

  He nodded, and I watched him go. The crowd parted to let the youth through. Countless faces were alight with curiosity. Well, I wasn’t about to start offering any explanations. They could hear all the details at Damianos’ trial.

  Then a hand tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to find myself looking at a stern-faced priest. I realised I would be explaining myself to the servants of more than one god and goddess before this night was over.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Hyanthidas didn’t win a prize, but that didn’t seem to dent his enjoyment of his trip to compete at the Great Panathenaia. Zosime and I were sorry to see him and Telesilla leave a few days after the victors were announced, but they had no reason to stay in Athens once they had chosen a souvenir amphora from the selection in the pottery where Menkaure worked.

  I didn’t need to hire a musician. I wasn’t called to read for the magistrates choosing the playwrights for the next Dionysia. That was a disappointment, I can’t pretend it wasn’t. The fact that Menekles, Apollonides and Lysicrates were swiftly hired by my rivals wasn’t much consolation.

  On the other hand, I was kept more than busy enough. By the time summer was over and autumn turned towards winter, winged Rumour had carried word of the festival night’s dramatic events around the agora and beyond. People who wanted an excuse to sit and hear what had really happened up on the Acropolis mostly had the courtesy to bring me some task and to pay for the privilege.