by J M Alvey
This was something else we’d decided before we’d gone to that meeting at the Academy, when we devised this second half of our plan to convince Alkias we could condemn him in the eyes of his fellow citizens in the Leukonoion District, even if we couldn’t convict him before a jury in the law courts.
If I was going to be strolling around Athens like a lamb left unattended in its pen to draw a jackal into an archer’s line of sight, I needed someone Alkias wasn’t likely to recognise watching my back. Lysicrates and Apollonides had been making enquiries around his home and neighbourhood, so there was every chance someone had pointed out two nosy strangers to him. Menekles, on the other hand, had headed straight for Piraeus when we’d gone our separate ways at the Dipylon Gate.
When he’d seen Alkias confront me just now, he’d walked straight past the pair of us, like several others on the road who’d all been intent on their own business. Once he was sure that I had Alkias’ attention, he’d turned around and walked up behind him, as light on his feet as a dancer.
Alkias choked. He tried to claw at Menekles’ arm, but the actor had seized his right wrist. So the killer had only one hand left free to scrabble ineffectually at the elbow steadily tightening around his windpipe.
Now I was happy to approach him. I ran my fingertip along the scar on the inside of Alkias’ forearm. It was freshly pink and puckered and just where Demeas had said I would find it, in line with his thumb. Still tender too, judging by the way Alkias writhed at my touch, but Menekles held him tight.
I wasn’t smiling now. ‘What will happen when we ask if anyone in Athens knows where you got this cut? Who remembers when they first saw it? What story did you tell to explain it away? Because you won’t be able to call on any witnesses who can swear that they saw what happened, will you?’
Menekles loosened his hold just enough to stop Alkias passing out for lack of breath. He leaned forward to put his lips close to the killer’s ear. His voice was as merciless as any wrathful god.
‘We know a man in Corinth who saw you there, and remembers the wound you were carrying. We can call up witnesses from Piraeus, who can swear that they saw you return on a ship from Kenchreai, two days after Dardanis was found dead. We can call up witnesses from the ports who remember you asking for any word of Eumares as well as any sighting of Dardanis regularly over the years. There can be no question that you made every effort to find your cousin.’
That had been an unlooked-for blessing bestowed by Athena, Apollo, Poseidon or whatever other gods were determined to see justice done as Menekles had blistered his feet traipsing around the docks. He reckoned that more than made up for not finding the actual ship that had given Alkias passage to Corinth.
The killer wasn’t defeated yet. He fought against Menekles’ hold, forcing out breathless words. ‘You said it yourself. Eumares poisoned his own wine.’
I nodded. ‘It’s the talk of the Leukonoion taverns. Why by Hades would he do such a thing? Any time we like, we can share what we’ve learned about that puzzle. That he was given the deadly potion by a whore, who’d been duped by an Athenian, who bought his poisons up on the Acrocorinth. He’s a man several people can describe in good detail.’
Alkias wasn’t struggling now. He hadn’t realised quite how much we knew. For the first time, I saw horror in his eyes. I decided it was time I saw fear.
‘We won’t only share that in Athens. Eumares was a respected member of the Brotherhood of Bellerophon. What do you suppose his grieving brothers will do when we tell them who we think murdered him?’
‘My guess is they’ll seek revenge.’ Menekles tightened his hold. ‘Bellerophon favoured direct action.’
‘So what can you do to restore your good name?’ I stared at Alkias, unblinking. ‘For a start, you can leave us well alone, because if any one of us dies a sudden death, we’ve all left letters to be delivered far and wide, accusing you and explaining why. Looking forward, you can do your duty to the gods and to Eumares’ ghost, by safeguarding Laches’ inheritance and managing his Athenian property honestly.’
‘And leaving Myrrhine well alone,’ growled Menekles.
I smiled cheerily once again. ‘Then the people looking sideways at you just now will see that you’re an upright and trustworthy citizen. Any suspicions they hear whispered in taverns must be unfounded rumours that no one with sense will believe.’
Menekles leaned close to Alkias’ ear once again. ‘Unless you give us cause to give them good reasons to believe that you’re a killer.’
Almost imperceptibly, I saw Alkias sag against the actor’s inexorable forearm, still held firm against his throat. Menekles felt his surrender and released his hold. Alkias fell to his hands and knees on the gravelled road. The only sound was the man’s harsh breathing, and the carefree trill of birds flitting between the roadside bushes.
Menekles and I watched Alkias decide what to do next as he stared at the ground. His shoulders tensed, and he braced himself, ready to spring up. Two against one wasn’t such bad odds, for a man this desperate.
‘I wouldn’t,’ I advised.
Alkias looked up, and saw that we had an ally.
Ambrakis stared down at him. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The big slave’s chilling gaze would freeze a water clock solid.
Alkias got slowly to his feet. He turned and, without a word, he began walking back towards Athens. We stood and watched.
‘Do you think we convinced him?’ Menekles asked, once the man was well out of earshot.
‘I sincerely hope so.’ I found I was shivering like a man caught in a sudden wind. I rubbed my hands briskly up and down my arms. ‘Come on, let’s get you home,’ I said to Ambrakis.
Aristarchos had insisted on lending us his personal torch-bearer and bodyguard when we’d explained our plan to him. He’d pointed out the advantages of confronting Alkias with someone he couldn’t possibly recognise. The man might not have seen Menekles with Apollonides or Lysicrates but it wouldn’t take long to learn who the actor was. A complete stranger’s presence was another matter all together. We hoped that closed our siege around Alkias completely.
‘You’re heading back to the city?’ Menekles was surprised. ‘I thought you were going home.’
I shrugged. ‘I changed my mind. There are a couple of things I can do, before Zosime finishes work for the day. We can walk back together.’
‘Fair enough.’ Menekles started walking.
I fell into step beside him, and Ambrakis brought up the rear.
Chapter Thirty-Two
I parted company with Ambrakis where the road through the city met the Sacred Way leading up to the Acropolis. I had expected to feel relieved after this final encounter with Alkias. Instead, I still felt burdened, and I didn’t know why. All I could think to do was appeal to divine Athena, to ask what more she expected of me in order to satisfy the dead man’s spirit.
Workmen were still busy around her magnificent new temple, as they had been for the last few years, and doubtless would be for years to come. There was dust on the breeze, and the ringing of chisels on stone, and the murmur of voices. The air was full of hope and purpose as these craftsmen went about replacing the ruins of the city’s shrines that the invading Persians had ravaged when my father was much the age I was now.
I found a quiet corner of the terrace where I’d be in nobody’s way, and sat down on the ground. I gazed into the empty inner sanctum. There was rumour that Pericles planned to dedicate a magnificent statue when the temple was finished. For now I was content to lay my unease before the unseen goddess. This was where we had worshipped Athena since she first walked among us.
I couldn’t say how long I’d been sitting there when a shadow fell across me. I looked up, and was startled to see Aristarchos gazing down.
‘Ambrakis said I’d find you here.’
‘Do you have more questions about
Corinth?’ I tried to think what I’d failed to tell him.
‘No, no.’ Aristarchos surprised me even more by sitting down beside me. ‘Ambrakis said you seemed preoccupied. I was wondering if there was anything you’d care to discuss.’
I blessed Athena for sending him to me. Sitting here, I’d been able to unravel the tangle of my thoughts. Now I welcomed his shrewd company as I tackled the questions that remained.
‘Have I done all that I can to secure justice for Eumelos, and for his wife and son?’
Aristarchos pursed his lips as he considered this. ‘Have you seen his last wishes honoured? Is their future secure, thanks to the silver that’s held for the child in Isthmia? Is the boy’s claim to inherit wealth and property from both his grandfathers now widely acknowledged?’
‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘in all respects.’
‘Then surely you have done a great deal?’ Aristarchos raised his grey brows.
‘But not everything.’ This was what was irritating me, worse than a louse lurking in my tunic. ‘Alkias still walks these streets, free to do as he pleases. We can’t bring him before the courts to face punishment.’
‘He may walk these streets, but thanks to you, he will be watched wherever he goes,’ Aristarchos countered, ‘and well he knows it.’
‘For how long? How soon will people’s memories fade?’ I couldn’t help thinking of Alypos Temenid, comfortably sitting out a few years away from Corinth, before he returned to rebuild his power and influence.
‘His neighbours will be reminded of the suspicions against Alkias whenever the child Laches comes to Athens to take part in district festivals,’ Aristarchos pointed out. ‘The Leukonoion officials will see to it that the heir to such substantial property is involved in all the appropriate rites.’
He shifted his position to sit more comfortably, tucking the folds of his long tunic around his ankles.
‘As for Alkias, he will answer to the gods of the dead for his crimes, whenever the Fates decide that the day to cut his life’s thread has come. He must carry the burden of that knowledge as he goes about his business. Isn’t that a more lasting punishment than a swift execution, or even exile among people who don’t know of his misdeeds?’
I wasn’t convinced.
‘Zosime’s father, Menkaure, tells me how his people’s gods weigh the hearts of those who have died against a divine feather,’ I remarked. ‘Those whose misdeeds tip the balance the wrong way are devoured by a fearsome monster, condemned to utter oblivion.’
That might suit Egyptians, but as far as I was concerned, Alkias didn’t deserve to escape his crimes so easily. I wondered what punishment he would face in the Underworld, giving him eternity to contemplate his vile sins. Something at least as exhausting as Sisyphus endlessly rolling a rock up the Acrocorinth, I sincerely hoped.
‘I wish I could believe that Alkias would be burdened by such fears,’ I said furiously. ‘He seems to have no conscience at all. He calmly devised this despicable plan to poison Eumelos, and then he must have followed him until he saw him stricken with his death agonies. Then he set out to hunt down Dardanis, ready to poleaxe him like a beast for slaughter without turning a hair. What manner of man must he be, to see other people as no more than obstacles on his path to the money and property he wants for his own? How many people has he killed, truly?’
I ticked off the murders we suspected the man of on my fingers. ‘Eumelos’ first wife and daughter, his own wife, Eumelos himself, Dardanis the slave, the herbalist Hermaios. How can the gods let such a vile man live and thrive?’
‘We can only be truly certain that he murdered Eumelos and the slave,’ Aristarchos pointed out. ‘And divine Athena and the avenging Furies made sure that you were there in Corinth, to see to it that his dark deeds were dragged into the light of day.’
‘True enough.’ That was some consolation, and I had to admit, it was always possible that Alkias’ wife had really been ill. Perhaps her accusations had been the fevered imaginings of a dying woman who had been so badly mistreated. It was possible that Eumelos’ first wife and child were living quietly and content somewhere far away, with a new husband and father. All of this was possible, though I still didn’t believe any of it.
‘Are we too quick to accept the easiest explanations, when someone disappears or dies?’ I looked at Aristarchos. ‘Too ready to agree that they must have just left the city, been cut down by disease, or eaten spoiled meat, or drunk foul water? Surely all this has shown us that not every murder is as obvious as finding someone standing over a corpse with a bloody knife in hand?’
‘True enough.’ Aristarchos looked thoughtfully at the gleaming white marble of Athena’s new temple rising to crown the Acropolis anew. ‘Perhaps that’s what our goddess wants of us, now that she’s shown us what men like Alkias are capable of. She shows us we have a duty to look more closely at such convenient deaths, and ensure that the guilty are revealed.’
I thought about that and nodded slowly. Here in this sacred space, his words had the ring of divine truth.
If you loved Scorpions in Corinth, don’t miss JM Alvey’s first historical detective novel, Shadows of Athens. Click here to buy now!
Acknowledgements
I remain indebted to the family and friends whose continued support and encouragement have sustained me through writing this second adventure for Philocles and the actors. I am also extremely grateful to those readers, reviewers, booksellers and bloggers who have shared their enthusiasm for Shadows of Athens. There really is no better incentive for a writer.
Max Edwards at Apple Tree Literary continues to champion these books for which I am sincerely grateful. My thanks to Craig Lye, who has seen this story through from first outline to finished text, and to Ben Willis, Alainna Hadjigeorgiou, Lucy Frederick and the rest of the team at Orion Books.
When I started writing Scorpions in Corinth, I did not expect to be thanking Sir Tony Robinson in these acknowledgements, but he definitely merits a grateful mention. Until I read his autobiography, No Cunning Plan, I had no idea that he had been one of the actors behind the masks of the National Theatre’s production of The Oresteia in 1981. I was an enthralled Sixth Former in the audience on one unforgettable day, and I would like to thank the entire company for bringing me face to face with the full might and majesty of Ancient Greek drama in performance. Those enduring memories are one of the reasons why my hero is a playwright. More than that, as Philocles takes to the stage himself in this book, Sir Tony’s recollections of the physical and artistic challenges of acting in a mask were tremendously useful as I sought to convey that experience to a reader.
Other research for this book has drawn heavily on the work of the American School of Classical Studies at Athens, whose archaeologists have been excavating the ancient city of Corinth and the wider Corinthia since 1896. The papers and reports that they have made available online through JSTOR have been invaluable. The publication in 2018 of their updated site guide to Ancient Corinth, with colour photographs, diagrams, maps and a wealth of detail and references could not have been better timed for my purposes. My sincere thanks go to all involved.
Needless to say, any scholarly errors are mine alone, as is all responsibility for the choices I have made in interpreting archaeological and historical evidence in the ways that will best serve my story.
Credits
JM Alvey and Orion Fiction would like to thank everyone at Orion who worked on the publication of Scorpions in Corinth in the UK.
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Praise for JM Alvey
‘There is a new star in the classical firmament. Philocles is engaging, inspiring and feels absolutely real. This is historical writing at its best and crime writing worthy of prizes. Riveting’
Manda Scott, author of the Boudica series
‘If you like C J Sansom’s Tudor sleuth Matthew Shardlake, you’ll love this – a gripping murder mystery set in a fantastically fully-realised ancient Athens, which will keep you guessing to the very end’
James Wilde, author of Pendragon
‘Intriguing . . . a refreshingly different setting portrayed with a convincing air of authenticity. I hope it’s the first of many’
Andrew Taylor, author of Ashes of London
‘It’s about time someone did for ancient Athens what Lindsey Davis’ Falco novels do for Ancient Rome. Alvey sets the scene perfectly, with easy brushstrokes and lightly worn learning. In Philocles we have an aspiring playwright, man of the people and reluctant detective. I look forward to his next case . . .’