by JM Alvey
The commissioner was on the verge of tears. I could see his grief for the dead man and for Hermaios’ family was at least as great as his sorrow over the loss of the performance the murdered poet would have given.
I turned to Kallinos. ‘What happened?’
‘We found him not far from the agora, on the slope below the Temple of Hephaistos.’ The Scythian showed no emotion as he tapped the front of his cuirass. ‘He’d been stabbed under the ribs. The fingers on his right hand had been broken.’
‘A man was murdered in such a public place?’ I was horrified. ‘No one saw a quarrel? No one stepped in to help him? No one raised the alarm seeing a man waving a knife covered in blood?’
Kallinos shook his head. ‘There was no blood to speak of. A dagger thrust to the heart with a sharp, narrow blade kills a man pretty cleanly.’
Melesias turned away with an inarticulate sound of despair. A few long strides took him to the far wall. Unable to go any further, whatever the wall paintings pretended, he stayed there with his back to us.
Aristarchos looked at Kallinos. ‘Was his hand injured in some struggle? Were his nails torn? Should we be looking for someone with a clawed face or arms?’
‘No.’ The Scythian was certain of that. ‘He was held down, forced to lie on his front with a knee in his back, if the grazes on his face are any guide. His fingers were broken by being wrenched and twisted, most likely one by one, as the killer demanded some answer from him. That’s another reason I don’t think he died in the agora.’
I hated to think how and why Kallinos was familiar with such torture techniques. ‘He must have been screaming in agony.’
The Scythian looked at me. ‘There was a rag stuffed in his mouth. He’d only need to nod, to tell his tormentor he was willing to talk.’
I decided against asking any more questions and drained my cup of wine. I felt a little less sick, but I wasn’t going to be touching the food.
‘When it was clear he had no answer to give, the killer used his dagger.’ Aristarchos drummed his fingers on the papyrus in front of him. ‘He must have been taken somewhere out of sight to be questioned so brutally, but we have no idea where.’
Melesias spun around. ‘Forgive me.’
He strode out of the dining room, nearly knocking the bread off the table in his haste. I saw tears glistening on his cheeks in the lamplight.
‘Lydis.’ Aristarchos jerked his head and the slave hurried after Melesias.
I went to pour myself some more wine. ‘If we could discover where Hermaios was last seen, that might give us a place to start looking.’ I would have consulted my list of the poets to see if that helped me recall anything useful from the conversation in the tavern, but I realised Lydis had taken it with him.
Aristarchos nodded. ‘If we could find out where he was taken, that might suggest something about who has done this.’
As I looked over towards him, movement by the door drew my eye. Kallinos was looking at me with sardonic amusement. I realised why, and spoke up to save the slave the trouble of finding the right words.
‘Can we expect such a favour from the Furies? The man was carried through the heart of the city and set down dead for the Scythians to find without anyone noticing anything amiss. Suppose we manage to retrace Hermaios’ last steps. Where will that get us? If someone did see a scuffle, or hear somebody yelling, why should they remember it? The city’s full and there’s commotion everywhere.’
Aristarchos sighed. ‘Very true.’
Something else occurred to me now that the first shock of this news had faded. I looked at Kallinos. ‘What would you have thought, if you’d come across these murders and neither man wore a red cloak?’
The Scythian shrugged. ‘I’d say a man on his own murdered Daimachos, but Hermaios’ killer had help. It would take two men to restrain him, and to carry him through the city. My guess is they draped his arms over their shoulders and each took a good hold around his waist, like friends supporting a drunk.’
I looked at Aristarchos. ‘I realise Melesias Philaid has every reason to be distressed, but these two men died in very different ways. Can we be certain these deaths are connected? I know they were both talented performers, but surely they were many other things as well. Daimachos had a knack for making himself unpopular. I saw that for myself. He could easily have said the wrong thing to the wrong man and fallen victim to someone’s wine-fuelled rage.’
I looked into the cup in my hand, ‘What do we know about Hermaios Metrobiou? What sort of man was he? Even the most upright citizen can make enemies. If someone believed Hermaios owed them some debt, a great festival could be a good time to settle that score and disappear into a crowd. We don’t know the poor wretch didn’t tell his killer what he wanted, and got a dagger in the heart regardless.’
‘You think this could simply be some dreadful misfortune?’ Aristarchos looked doubtful. ‘Not an attempt to disrupt the festival?’
I remembered he’d mentioned that possibility when we’d met at the Temple of Zeus. I had to admit that killing two poets would wreck the Iliad’s performance more thoroughly than just killing one. But illness or accidents short of murder must always be allowed for, surely?
‘What happens now? Can the performance go ahead if the allotted poets aren’t here to tell the whole story?’
‘That’s what we were discussing when you arrived.’ Aristarchos rolled up the scroll he’d been studying. ‘Melesias has travelled far and wide during these past couple of years, to see as many different poets perform as he possibly could. He’s been determined to find the most talented men to participate, to give each poet the episode most suited to their skills.’
I spared a moment to envy the wealth that made such journeys possible, but that was outweighed by my sympathy. No wonder Melesias had been overcome at the prospect of so much hard work being for nothing.
Aristarchos was still speaking. ‘Thankfully, there are far more excellent poets than there are episodes in the Iliad, and a great many of them have come to enjoy the festival without such responsibilities. Any of them will jump at the chance to step up to the speaker’s platform.’
He surprised me with a faint smile. ‘I was persuading Melesias that the simplest solution is inviting the two best poets he knows are in Athens to take the dead men’s places in the roster, rather than reordering the entire performance so late in the day.’
‘That would risk causing confusion,’ I agreed.
‘It’s a recipe for disaster,’ Aristarchos said frankly. ‘Melesias would never consider such folly if he weren’t so overwrought. But I will make him see sense, if it takes me all night.’
He had no doubt that he would succeed, and I wouldn’t ever bet against him.
He tucked the re-rolled scroll into the basket. ‘We will choose two new poets to replace the missing men, and they’ll have tomorrow and the first two days of the festival to rehearse. It may not be the perfect offering to Athena that Melesias had envisaged, but he won’t be disgraced, even if he has aged ten years overnight.’
‘Because both those episodes take place on the last day of performance.’ I spoke the realisation aloud. ‘If this was truly an attack on the Great Panathenaia or Melesias, wouldn’t an enemy start with whoever was to give us the wrath of Achilles?’
‘That’s true.’ Aristarchos looked thoughtful. ‘Unless inflicting torment is the point. I don’t mean Hermaios’ suffering, but you’ve seen Melesias Philaid’s anguish. He could still be the one under attack.’
‘Can you think of anyone who hates him enough to be so calculatedly cruel?’ I remembered that he and I had already encountered men so despicably arrogant that they considered lesser men’s lives to be of such little account that they could be discarded like game pieces.
Over by the door Kallinos was looking sceptical. I couldn’t blame the Scythian.
‘I could come up with reasons why these deaths are tied together all night, and find just as many ways why they’re not.�
� I swallowed a yawn. It was late and I wanted to go home. ‘I spend my life making up stories, whether or not they ever reach the stage. Give me some players and a handful of incidents and I can spin any number of yarns to weave them together.’
Aristarchos sighed. ‘You’re right. Until we know more, we’re just guessing. I will find out if Melesias can think of anyone holding a grudge against him. Hermaios’ family will be making ready to receive mourners tomorrow, so you can pay your respects on my behalf. See if you can learn of any reason why he might have been killed. This could be a quarrel that has nothing to do with the festival.’
I opened my mouth to ask if there was someone else he could send, then I changed my mind. I wouldn’t be able to put this behind me until I had some answers, any more than Aristarchos would.
‘Can Lydis give me directions to his house?’
Chapter Six
Zosime didn’t like the idea of me visiting the dead man’s family. ‘You’re going to intrude on a house of mourning when you didn’t even know the man? What are you going to say when someone asks you to share some memory of him?’
‘I’ll say I’m there to pay Aristarchos’ respects.’ I busied myself choosing a different belt for my tunic.
‘What will you say when they ask how he knew Hermaios? In any case, once you’ve delivered his condolences, what reason will you have to stay?’
Zosime was still lying in our bed. I’d hoped to leave her half-asleep after my swiftly whispered explanation for heading out so early. No such luck.
‘You’ll get thrown out,’ she predicted. ‘They’ll think you’re just there to fill your belly with free food.’
Unfortunately, I realised, she was right. That was a distinct possibility. It didn’t change my mind. ‘I told Aristarchos I’d do this. I can hardly go back to him and say I decided against it. There are two murders that someone must answer for, and we need to find something that could lead us to the killer.’
‘Why must you be the one to pursue this?’ She shook her head. ‘Vengeance is a family’s duty.’
‘If Daimachos of Leuktra had a family, they don’t even know that he’s dead yet,’ I pointed out. ‘Who’s going to hunt for his killer in the meantime? You don’t think that the Fates or the Furies or some other god used Kallinos to lead me to that gruesome scene?’
Zosime had no answer for that. She threw back the light blanket and got out of bed. ‘You need to find someone who knew Hermaios then,’ she said tartly. ‘Someone with an honest reason to pay their respects, and to make some introductions so you can ask your questions without getting a punch in the mouth.’
Clearly, I shouldn’t expect much sympathy if I came home with a fat lip.
‘Keep your voice down. We don’t want to disturb Hyanthidas and Telesilla.’ I tried not to show my exasperation.
It wasn’t only Zosime’s objections making me apprehensive about the task that lay ahead of me. I’d lain in the dark staring at the ceiling for a long time before I fell asleep last night, trying to work out where to start once I crossed Hermaios’ family threshold. Finding this killer looked like a challenge to rival one of Heracles’ less amusing labours.
Zosime paused in selecting a pair of shoulder brooches from her jewellery box. ‘Go and see Apollonides. He wanted to be an epic poet before he turned to acting.’ She reached for a length of light wool cloth to pin herself into a deftly draped dress.
That was news to me, but I didn’t doubt it. Zosime had attended enough of my Dionysia play rehearsals to make firm friends with the actors I’d hired, who’d come with me to Corinth and taken the lead roles in The Hounds. Once a man proves himself on stage, a playwright’s a fool not to use him again.
‘He may know someone who knew poor Hermaios.’ She folded the top third of the dress length and wrapped it around herself. ‘Someone you could ask to go with you.’
‘I’m sure that’s not necessary,’ I began.
‘You took Hyanthidas with you yesterday, when you thought there was only one killer. When there was only one dead man,’ she snapped as she stabbed the folded cloth at her shoulders with the brooches. ‘Last night you said there might be two murderers.’
Now I heard the anxiety in her voice. Too late, I realised I’d made a mistake sharing Kallinos’ thoughts last night as I ate my belated meal. I’d been tired and careless, and too ready to answer Hyanthidas’ questions about the body on the slope below Hephaistos’ temple.
I went over and kissed her. ‘You’re as wise as you are beautiful. I’ll see if Apollonides can help. I will be careful, I swear it, and I’ll be safe enough if he’s with me.’
She still didn’t look happy, but she kissed me back before briskly knotting her woven belt. ‘Get on with it. I’ll go into the city with Hyanthidas and Telesilla. I want to go and see my dad.’
‘Say hello from me. We should agree on a night to dine with him. Ask what he particularly wants to see at the festival.’ Hopefully spending the day with her father would stop her worrying about me.
That said, I hoped we wouldn’t have to spend another evening with him discussing Panathenaic amphorae. Not that I begrudged Menkaure his pride that the pottery where he worked was one of the workshops awarded a share of this lucrative work. The craftsmen’s toil and artistry deserved to be applauded, but he had told me all about their success and its obligations several times now.
Each black amphora, with its bold depiction of the goddess and scenes from the games, must hold exactly the designated quantity of olive oil harvested from Athena’s sacred groves under her priests’ watchful gaze. It must be made in the traditional shape and decorated to an approved design signed off by the festival commissioners. With the generous prizes on offer for the musical and poetry contests, and for each of the three classes of men, youths and boys in every athletic competition, Menkaure had told us that close to fifteen hundred amphorae were needed, and that was after accounting for wastage in the kiln and elsewhere. Then there were the half, quarter, eighth-sized and even smaller replicas that the chosen workshops are allowed to make and sell to visitors who want a souvenir of their visit, to cherish at home or to dedicate in a temple to whichever god had kept them safe on their journey.
Thinking about making plans to meet him reminded me I still hadn’t called on my family. At least I knew when they would be expecting me for dinner. The last day of the holiday would see citizens and their guests feasting on the meat from the sacrifices to bright-eyed Athena that are made by her priests high on the Acropolis. Since the Great Panathenaia is a festival where resident foreigners take part in some of the rites, Mother would be happy to welcome Zosime to share in the celebration.
All that would have to wait. I went and roused Kadous to tell him where I was going and that he should be ready to escort Zosime into Athens. Then I headed for the high road.
As I walked, I wondered if we were looking for a single killer, whatever his reasons might be. Would Hermaios’ murder make it easier to catch him? If one man was indeed responsible, we could stop suspecting anyone whose presence elsewhere could be vouched for in the hours when both Daimachos and Hermaios must have died. Though for all we knew, just about anyone else in Athens could be guilty, citizen, resident foreigner or visitor. The Scythians couldn’t ask them all where they’d been.
We needed some definite scent to follow if we were to bring anyone to trial before the Areopagus Court, where Athena had insisted Orestes stand trial for his father’s killing in the days of the heroes. The Furies had followed the scent of the blood that stained him like hunting hounds pursuing a wounded deer. I humbly asked those fearsome goddesses of justice to sniff us out some lead.
As I promised them I would do my part, I decided the first thing I needed to know was when Hermaios had last been seen alive. I also decided Zosime was right. I needed someone at my side when I went to see his grieving family.
Apollonides lives with his widowed mother and his three sisters in the Kollytos district. His father died towar
ds the end of last winter. For the moment, they defer to his uncle, his father’s older brother, as head of the family, but it won’t be long before a suitable marriage will be arranged for my friend. He will do his duty as an Athenian citizen and an only son. With Hera and Demeter’s blessing, he’ll raise a boy to bear his father’s name, and see his sisters well settled in good marriages.
As I tapped quietly on their gate, I hoped I would find him at home. Apollonides would be a good husband to the wife his mother and uncle chose for him, but given the choice, he took male lovers. In recent months, he’d been making the most of his last days of freedom.
A mild-faced slave opened the gate. He knew who I was, but he looked surprised to see me this early. ‘Yes?’
‘May I speak to Apollonides? I don’t want to disturb the household,’ I added hastily.
The slave was old enough to have seen most things and to know not to ask pointless questions. ‘Please step inside.’
I waited by the gate while he went into the house. Apollonides soon appeared and I was relieved to see he was clear-eyed. He must be saving his strength for whatever pleasures the upcoming festival nights would offer.
‘What brings you here when the cockerels are still yawning?’ He ushered me to a bench by the wall.
‘Do you know a man called Hermaios Metrobiou?’ I quickly told him what had happened to the poet, though I spared him the details of the dead man’s torment.
Apollonides was horrified. ‘That’s awful.’
‘I’m so sorry. Were you friends?’ If I’d known, I would have chosen my words more carefully.
Apollonides shook his head, still appalled. ‘I’ve seen him perform, but we’ve never said much more than hello to each other. But what has any of this got to do with you?’
‘He’s not the first of the poets here to perform the Iliad who has been killed.’ I explained as succinctly as I could. That still took long enough for the slave to reappear with sliced melon and yesterday’s bread with a dish of olive oil to soften it. He put everything on the bench between us, and fetched a jug of fresh water and two cups.
