Justice for Athena

by JM Alvey

  Hermaios Metrobiou’s brother enlisted me to prepare his submissions for the Ruling Archon once his intent to prosecute Damianos for murder was declared. I wrote the speech he delivered when the case came before the Areopagus Court, as well as helping several members of Polymnestos’ family polish their testimony. I was paid handsomely, though between you, me and Hermes, I’d have done the work for free, to be certain the bastard was convicted.

  Aristarchos sent his son Hipparchos to sit beside me as I worked on these tasks, to watch and learn. The young noble hadn’t won a prize either, but it seemed surviving the hoplite and chariot race was victory enough for him. I was relieved for Aristarchos’ sake that he had come through unscathed.

  Ikesios, Eupraxis and several other poets made sure they were in Athens for the day of the trial. Unsurprisingly, they needed no one’s help to make their testimony as compelling as anything Homer had ever composed. I was still astonished another poet had won the Iliad contest after hearing Eupraxis, but I hadn’t been there for that triumphant performance so I had to accept the judges knew what they were doing.

  The Areopagus Court was crowded as Damianos spoke in his own defence. He defied us to produce a witness who had seen Daimachos killed, or to tell the court where Hermaios had been tortured. That was something we’d been unable to discover. We could only guess that a man with Damianos’ business interests across the city must have known of some suitable workshop or storeroom, deserted for the festival.

  Spitting a torrent of venom and lies, he denied everything apart from the attacks on Thallos and Apollonides. He claimed they were conspiring to hide his sister from him. He insisted he had every right to force them to tell him where she was. However badly he’d shattered his wrists, his arrogance remained unbroken even after he’d been imprisoned to make sure he didn’t flee. The Acropolis priests had insisted he was held to face the city’s wrath after he had profaned the night vigil of the Great Panathenaia.

  That didn’t save the bastard. No one believed the poet or the actor had ever even spoken to his sister. Damianos was rightly condemned before sunset and the Scythians took him away to face death the next day. I heard from Kallinos later that he couldn’t find a single relative, friend, or even some business acquaintance to send him a cup of hemlock on his last night in his cell, to escape slow strangulation by the city’s executioner.

  I went up to the Acropolis after the trial. I offered a libation to Athena and the Furies at the city’s most ancient altar, and the prayers I offered there are between me and the goddesses.

  In the days that followed I turned my attention to the flurry of new requests I was getting for my services now that so many people had heard my skills eloquently displayed in court. I even started thinking about buying a second slave to serve as my secretary.

  * * *

  The seasons turned and winter looked towards spring. A day arrived that was mild enough for me to work sitting in our porch, wearing a cloak and with the brazier nearby. As Zosime worked at her loom, with the steady clack of warp weights in the storeroom behind me, I was drafting a complaint about a boundary marker being moved when a knock rattled our gate. I wasn’t expecting anyone. I looked up as Kadous came out of his quarters to see who was there. The Phrygian opened up to show us a stranger standing in the entrance.

  I had no idea who he might be, but he was looking at me with wary purpose. He was wearing thick-soled traveller’s sandals and his heavy cloak was creased and dusty. Beneath a broad-brimmed hat to ward off sun or rain, there was something faintly familiar about his face. A moment more and I guessed who he was.

  ‘Posideos Kalliphonou?’

  ‘Philocles Hestaiou?’ He wanted to be sure.

  ‘That’s me.’ I put my pen down and capped the inkwell. ‘Please, come in and sit down. You look as if you’ve come a long way.’

  As our visitor crossed the threshold, Kadous pushed the gate closed on the latch. He fetched a second stool and set it down beneath the shelter of the porch on the other side of the brazier.

  ‘Some warm wine?’ I gestured to offer our unexpected guest the seat.

  ‘That would be very welcome, thank you.’ He settled himself and unwrapped his cloak to leave the sturdy wool hanging from his shoulders.

  Kadous fetched a jug of wine from the storeroom. I’d had the dining room walls plastered, so we were keeping it uncluttered while Zosime was deciding what she was going to paint in there. As the Phrygian settled the jug in the glowing charcoal, I noted that he hadn’t closed the door to the store completely. I fancied I could feel my beloved’s gaze on the back of my neck. She might not be coming to join us, but she definitely wanted to hear what this unforeseen visitor had to say.

  So did I. ‘How may I help you?’ I prompted.

  Posideos’ smile was the barest twitch of his lips. ‘It seems you already have.’

  ‘You’ve heard the news about Damianos Sethou? It looks as if you’ve made quite a journey to be sure you can finally go home.’

  He surprised me with a shake of his head. ‘We won’t be coming back to Athens. I’m here to make certain the brute is dead, and to let our families know that we’re happy and well. But I wanted to thank you first.’

  ‘You’ve caused your family a great deal of pain.’ The words were out before I could help myself.

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’ But Posideos was unrepentant. ‘Damianos would have done far worse if he ever learned I had rescued her from him. My father could never have withstood his malice. He would have told Damianos if he knew where we were. Then that bastard would have ruined his life anyway, along with my sisters’ and brothers’ prospects. There would be nothing anyone could do to stop him. He knew how to do lasting damage without giving anyone a case that would stand up in court.’

  I opened my mouth, then closed it again. From what little I knew of both men, that seemed entirely possible. Adrasteia knew what her brother was like behind closed doors and Posideos knew his father far better than I did. I was in no position to judge the runaway lovers.

  He looked at me steadily. ‘If I had told my father I loved her, he would have gone to Damianos and offered to arrange our marriage in an honourable fashion. When he was turned down, as he surely would have been, that would have been the end of the matter as far as he was concerned. As for Adrasteia, she would never have been allowed out of their house again until she was traded away into wedlock like some choice cargo of perfume.’

  ‘That’s really none of my business.’ To my relief, Kadous came over with a cloth to lift the hot jug off the brazier. He carried the wine over to the table to add honey and water to cool it for drinking.

  Posideos shook his head. ‘You and your friends made it your business when you put an end to Damianos. You deserve to know the whole story. Don’t tell me you don’t have questions.’

  I could definitely feel Zosime’s eyes on me. I knew there were a great many things she still wanted to know. ‘If Adrasteia was so closely watched, how did the two of you ever meet?’

  Posideos smiled. ‘Alkimos brought her to the Pnyx to see some of the Iliad. Damianos knew nothing about it. He was so busy with his business dealings, out and about at the Great Panathenaia’s other events, he assumed she was at home. After all, that’s where he’d ordered her to stay. I was giving my performance early on the first day of the recital. Friends of mine knew friends of Alkimos and he and I fell into conversation.’ The poet surprised me with a laugh. ‘Don’t ask me what we talked about. Once I started talking to Adrasteia I fell under her spell.’

  Like a man who’d heard the Sirens’ song, I reflected. The poet’s life had certainly never been the same again. Though who was I to judge? I’d fallen in love with Zosime after a mere handful of meetings.

  ‘Your brothers travelled far and wide to look for you at different festivals, but you seem to have given up performing.’ I accepted a cup of warm, sweet wine from Kadous and thanked him with a nod.

  Posideos raised his hands and spread his
fingers wide before taking his own drink from the slave. I saw callouses and what looked like an old rope burn across one weathered forearm.

  ‘Now I fish to feed my family and to earn my silver. I’ve never been happier,’ he assured me. ‘I’ve no wish to go back to endlessly travelling and performing, any more than either of us want to live in Athens again.’

  That was no great surprise, given the endless questions they’d face if they came back.

  ‘And your wife, she is well?’ I assumed they had exchanged some sort of vows before Aphrodite’s altar at very least.

  ‘She is, and our daughter thrives.’

  He nodded and I thought he was going to say something more. I sipped my fragrant wine and waited. Posideos swallowed a mouthful of his own drink, looking thoughtful.

  He spoke a moment later. ‘Have you had any dealings with Alkimos?’

  ‘Not as such. When the case against Damianos came to court, his accusers made it very clear his brother knew nothing of his crimes. They’d barely spoken for several years. Slaves carried messages back and forth to manage their business affairs.’

  Since the bad feeling between the men was easily proved and widely known, it seemed little of Damianos’ disgrace was going to stain his brother’s reputation. Now I knew more of this story, I was glad. Alkimos was looking like the unsung hero of this particular epic. If he hadn’t known for certain that his sister had run away with Posideos, he must at very least had some suspicion. Evidently he had never breathed a word to the brother he hated, to safeguard the sister he must love.

  ‘He and his wife have taken Tryphosa and her children into their own household,’ I added.

  ‘That is good to know. Adrasteia hated the thought of leaving her alone when she left Damianos’ house to marry whoever he decided should have her.’

  Posideos looked so relieved that I wondered if finding out how the widow was faring was a large part of the reason for his journey. Adrasteia must have known the torments she was leaving the poor woman to face. Pherenike couldn’t give evidence in court, but I’d heard her words in her father’s account of Tryphosa’s screams as she was punished for not telling her husband that his sister had left the house. The beaten woman must have said something to let her husband know he was hunting a poet. She could hardly be blamed for that.

  ‘How did you hear of Damianos’ trial and execution?’ I asked. If Posideos had left the performer’s life behind, he couldn’t have picked up the news from some other poet.

  He looked a little embarrassed. ‘It seems Adrasteia heard a rumour from a friend of a friend of a friend who lives here in Athens. A woman who knows something of her family’s affairs. So I came to see if the rumour was true.’

  ‘Pherenike,’ I guessed.

  ‘Who?’ Posideos looked blank.

  ‘Never mind.’ It hardly mattered. ‘Is there anything you wish to ask me?’

  ‘I don’t believe so, but I will be in the city for a few days.’ He drained his cup. ‘If I think of something, may I call again?’

  ‘By all means,’ I assured him.

  He rose to his feet. ‘Thank you, for your hospitality today, and for your part in lifting this shadow from our lives. Please, thank your friends who had a hand in this. We can never repay any of you.’

  ‘We were serving Athena and the Furies,’ I told him. ‘Offer them whatever grateful sacrifice you can afford.’

  ‘We will,’ he assured me. ‘Well, for the moment at least, I’ll bid you good day.’

  ‘Goodbye.’ I watched him cross the courtyard.

  Kadous had barely closed the gate behind the poet turned fisherman when Zosime hurried out of the storeroom. ‘You didn’t ask where they’re living now.’

  I offered her my wine. ‘I don’t think he would have told me. He had his chance, more than once, if he wanted me to know.’

  ‘You think there’s more to this story?’ She took the cup and sipped.

  ‘I think he doesn’t want me to be able to tell his father, because that’s going to be a very awkward meeting. He may well not want the old man to know where to find them, not just yet anyway.’

  I guessed there were complex currents in that relationship, as well as between Posideos and his brothers. There are hidden tensions in every family. Something more than a love of Homer’s work had surely played a part in him taking to the road as a poet in the first place.

  ‘So you don’t think he’ll be welcomed home like Odysseus, with everything forgiven and forgotten after the initial uproar,’ Zosime observed.

  ‘At least he won’t be cut down like Agamemnon,’ I countered.

  Real life and epic poems don’t have that much in common when you start thinking about it. I recalled Menekles talking about one of those gloomy Ionian philosophers called Herakleitos. Apparently he famously said no man can step into the same river twice. There would be no going back for anyone in those families.

  Though in real life, as in the great epic poetry cycles, one story always leads on to another as people come and go. I was content to let Posideos and Adrasteia get on with their lives with Aphrodite’s blessing. We had enough answers to satisfy my curiosity. If Apollonides wanted to know more, he was welcome to try finding Posideos before he left the city to return to his new life.

  I would go on with my own life here with Zosime, secure in the knowledge that I had done my duty to my city, to honour blessed Athena and to serve the fearsome Furies who pursue vengeance for the unjustly dead.

  Acknowledgements

  I remain indebted to family and friends for their continued support. I am also extremely grateful to those readers, reviewers, booksellers and bloggers whose enthusiasm for Philocles and his investigations gave me hope when the future of this series was abruptly thrown into doubt.

  Max Edwards has proved his worth as an agent and friend once again, not least as he secured a new home for these books with Canelo. My thanks to the team there, most particularly Craig Lye, who has edited this third story after a twist of fate that proves reality can indeed be stranger than fiction.

  Rather than get entangled with rights and permissions issues for the sake of two brief quotes from Homer, I went back to the original text myself. Since it has been a very long time since I was reading Greek as an undergraduate, my thanks to Tony Keen for approving my translations.

  The backdrop to this story is the Athenian festival of the Great Panathenaia. This panhellenic event was so well known in the ancient world that no one ever felt much need to write the precise details down. Consequently, I am tremendously grateful to the scholars who have studied literary references here and there, deciphered often fragmentary inscriptions, and debated the correct interpretation of depictions of these contests and rituals on pots and in sculpture. This book would not have been possible without their work, and without my access to their papers online in this year of closed libraries.

  Needless to say, any errors are mine alone, as is responsibility for the choices I have made in interpreting archaeological and historical evidence in the ways that best serve my story.

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Canelo

  Canelo Digital Publishing Limited

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  Copyright © JM Alvey, 2020

  The moral right of JM Alvey to be identified as the creator of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781788639729

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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