Justice for Athena

by JM Alvey

  The youth hesitated, looking at Eupraxis. ‘I could come back here afterwards, and help you prepare?’

  ‘Don’t you want to see the whole performance from the start, up at the Pnyx?’ Eupraxis was clearly hoping Ikesios was going to say he didn’t.

  The lad shook his head and I saw the gleam of tears in his eyes. ‘I would rather help you. To serve Athena. To outweigh this evil. To honour Hermaios’ memory.’

  ‘The sooner we can cross the names off this list, the sooner you’ll be free to do that.’ I headed for the door.

  Apollonides followed me out. The boy held back, still talking to Eupraxis. We went down the wooden stair and waited for Ikesios to catch up with us.

  ‘Do you want me to find a citizen working here who can vouch for our friend?’ Apollonides didn’t sound as if he thought that was necessary.

  I shared my suspicions about the Lemnian’s poor eyesight. ‘I can’t see him picking out a man in a crowd and stalking him like a hunter pursuing a deer, can you?’

  ‘He’d only need to follow a red cloak,’ Apollonides pointed out reluctantly. ‘If he wanted to knock some other poet, any poet, on the head, in hopes of getting his chance to perform.’

  I sighed. ‘Do you seriously imagine he did that?’

  But I had to ask the question. Eupraxis looked as fit as any other Hellene who takes his duty to fight for his city seriously. He could probably have taken that staff off Daimachos and beaten him to death with it. If he had some reason to hate him that we didn’t know about. We would never know it though, unless Eupraxis chose to admit his crime, and why would he do that?

  ‘No.’ Apollonides ran a hand through his curls.

  I nodded. ‘Besides, there’s nowhere here where he could have held Hermaios and tortured him. Why would he do something so vile to a man he clearly admired? There’s no way he could have carried a body out of here on his own, and there’s no indication he owns a slave.’ There had been no sign of anyone else staying in that room.

  ‘True,’ Apollonides agreed.

  I felt more certain as I gestured at the industrious bronzesmiths on the far side of the courtyard. ‘If Hermaios was killed here, someone would have seen or heard something and raised the alarm. And the same is going to be true of at least half of the men on this list, maybe more, once we’ve seen where they’re staying. Add to that, a good few of them will vouch for each other. If we’re ready to trust Eupraxis’ word, then we can already discount Epilykos of Klazomenai and the other Ionians, especially since there’s no chance they could have killed Daimachos either.’

  All the same, as I looked at the papyrus, my heart sank. We’d started with a long list of men we thought could be the killer and now we’d added half as many again.

  Apollonides heaved a sigh as Ikesios came down the wooden steps. ‘Let’s go and see what we can learn, and Hermes save us from blisters.’

  I patted the bulge of Aristarchos’ silver. ‘Let’s start in the agora and pour a libation at the altar to the twelve gods. We’re going to need help from all of them before this is over.’

  * * *

  Be careful what you pray for because the gods may just give it to you. Isn’t that the warning from priests and oracles? By the time I was heading for home, the sun had long since set. Aristarchos’ silver was spent, and Apollonides and Ikesios had gone their separate ways. If my feet weren’t blistered raw, Hermes didn’t deserve the credit. My brother Chairephanes is the master craftsman who makes my sandals. My legs ached all the same. If we hadn’t walked the length and breadth of Athens, that was more by luck than judgement.

  Despite the late hour, the road was still busy with people trying to reach the city before the festival started tomorrow morning. That meant they were heading in the opposite direction to me, and I was in no mood to be continually stepping aside. Some of the travellers saw I wasn’t about to yield the path and dodged out of my way. Others were blinded by their haste or the torches they carried in the summer night. As careless people blundered into me, I vented my frustration with a few brutal shoves and some savage curses.

  ‘What did you say?’ One outraged man must have had a day as exhausting as mine.

  I tried to decide whether to apologise, or to punch him to save time if he was intent on a fight. Instead his wife dragged him away.

  He threw a last insult at me over his shoulder. ‘Arrogant, cock-sucking Athenians. Always act like your shit don’t stink.’

  I ignored him and went on my way. As I turned for home by the Hermes pillar, I stopped. Taking a few deep breaths, I waited for my bad temper to ebb a little before I went on. The god’s face was shrouded in shadow as I forced myself to brush a hand over his head and mutter ungracious thanks for everything we’d learned today.

  I started walking again. Every redoubled ache told me stopping had been a stupid mistake. I should have known better. I did know better. I’d marched enough miles as a hoplite burdened with armour, spear and shield. By the time I reached my own gate, I felt as though the soles of my feet had been beaten with sticks.

  Kadous opened the gate to my knock. Anxious in the light of the lamp, he was about to speak, but I cut him off with a gesture.

  ‘I need to soak my feet, and I’m hungry and thirsty.’ I walked past him and dropped on to the bench in the porch. Leaning my head against the wall, I closed my eyes. Ordinarily, I unlace my own sandals. I’m no Persian, expecting to be waited on, hand and foot. Tonight though, forget it. Kadous could do the honours once he’d filled a basin. I could hear him pouring water.

  The door to our living room opened. ‘Where have you been?’

  I opened my eyes to see Zosime looking down at me. Her eyes were wide in the lamplight and her lips were pressed together in a tight, level line. Clearly I’d been mistaken when I’d expected her to have got over her misgivings from this morning. Then I realised something more was amiss. She was cross with me.

  I was too tired to put up with being scolded. ‘In Athens.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have sent word, to let me know what you were doing?’

  ‘How? When?’ I demanded.

  ‘Aristarchos could have lent you a slave.’ Her voice rose, irritated. ‘You could have sent word to my father, or to Hyanthidas’ lodging. I even asked at your brothers’ house, in case they’d seen you.’

  I had to concede she had a point. I’d passed within easy distance of Menkaure’s modest home in the Kerameikos district. I simply hadn’t thought of stopping by.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Too late, I realised that didn’t sound nearly as apologetic as I hoped.

  Her anger flared like oil dripped onto a brazier’s hot charcoal. ‘So what have you been doing? Besides hunting a killer who’s beaten one man to death and knifed another? Besides risking a thrashing for intruding on a grieving family? You don’t think I had good reason to worry?’

  I was too fed up to go through every fruitless thing I’d done since we’d seen each other this morning. ‘You had nothing to worry about. I’ve been finding out who couldn’t possibly be the killer.’

  I tugged the crumpled papyrus from my belt, screwed it up and tossed it on the ground. If the brazier had been closer, I’d have chucked it on the burning charcoal.

  Zosime set down her lamp and snatched it up. She sat beside me to read what I’d written. Of course, the scrawls on the list made no sense to her.

  ‘All these men could be killers?’ She looked at me, irate as well as confused. ‘How can you hope to find out which one is guilty?’

  My bad temper came surging back. I snatched the papyrus off her and screwed it up again, throwing it into the shadows.

  ‘That’s not the problem. Not one of them could have committed both murders, if we can trust what they say. But how can we be sure of anything? They could be lying through their teeth. Two or more of them could be conspiring. There has to be more than one man involved, and these poets all know each other. They spend their lives going from festival to festival, watching each other per
form, competing for the same prizes. They’re rivals for the same coins tossed by those audiences. There could be any number of grudges and hatreds behind these killings that they’ll never admit to outsiders.’

  I spat the conclusions that had tormented me as I was walking home. ‘Even if we can believe everything they’ve told us today, that gets us no further forward. We’re no closer to finding this killer.’

  ‘I still don’t see why this is your responsibility,’ Zosime wasn’t going to let that go.

  ‘We settled that this morning. I’m not going over it again.’ Now I’d started venting my frustration, I couldn’t stop. ‘Anyway, I can’t see that it matters. No one can tell me how many other poets are in the city who aren’t on that bloody list. Or these deaths may have nothing to do with the Great Panathenaia. Completely separate quarrels could have got these men killed, or they could have faced some justified vengeance, or something else that we’ll never discover!’

  At least three of the men I had talked to had refused to believe there was any connection to be found. These murders were undeniably tragedies, but such deaths were hardly unknown at the great panhellenic festivals. Were they right? Were they trying to convince themselves they had nothing to fear? Were they trying to put me off the scent, because they had something to hide? I had no way to know, and no way to find out.

  My wrath burned itself out. I closed my eyes, and leaned back against the wall.

  ‘Well, I’m glad to see you aren’t lying dead in an alley somewhere.’ Zosime was still furious.

  Stung, I opened my eyes, but she had already gone into our bedroom, slamming the door behind her. She’d taken the lamp as well.

  Across the courtyard, the other lamp showed me Kadous stirring new life into the brazier’s embers. At least my row with Zosime had given him time to warm some water for my feet. I sat silently until he brought it over. The slave filled a wide, shallow basin before kneeling to unlace my sandals. As I eased my feet into the water, he fetched me bread and some sardines that he’d cooked earlier.

  ‘Thank you.’ I mixed myself a strong cupful when he fetched me wine and water. Then I poured myself another drink, and a third.

  Once I’d eaten, and the water had eased my feet at least a little bit, I hobbled to the spare bed we keep set up for guests in the storeroom. Weary as I was, it was still a long time before I slept.

  Chapter Eight

  Despite that late night after a long and tiring day, and unrefreshing, fitful sleep, I woke up early. The first thing I noticed was the unfamiliar scents of herbs and dyes instead of a hint of perfume. The storeroom is where Zosime keeps her loom and the wools to weave her dress lengths. The second thing I noticed was the lack of her comforting warmth beside me in the bed. I hate sleeping alone.

  Then the thoughts that had besieged me as I lay there last night drove everything else out of my head. I should have realised Zosime would be worried when the whole day passed with no word from me. She had no way to know what I was doing and whether or not I was in any danger. I should have been more considerate. I owed her a sincere apology, both for leaving her to fret, and for taking out my bad temper on her when I finally got home.

  Not that she would have been left as bereft as an Athenian wife, if I had fallen foul of this murderer. A citizen widow would be dependent on whichever man was now head of her family, and reliant on his goodwill. Zosime could make her own living with her skills as a vase painter anywhere. She and Menkaure had lived in Egypt and then in Crete. They could leave Athens and make a new life wherever they chose, and leave the duty of avenging my death to my brothers. They could leave Athens regardless, or Zosime could go and live with her father in Kerameikos, if I ever made her unhappy enough to leave me.

  Just the idea that I might somehow do that through carelessness or thoughtlessness left me feeling hollow inside. Could I reassure her by promising that I’d give her no more cause to worry? I lay there trying to decide. Had I played my part in this tragedy by now? I’d helped the Scythians put a name to the dead Boeotian. I’d done far more, traipsing around the city to see if an epic poet could be responsible for these crimes. Surely Aristarchos couldn’t expect anything else of me?

  I had no ties of blood or kinship to either of the dead men. There would be countless others to whom the gods would look first, to seek vengeance for unjustly spilled blood. The Polemarch would send word to whoever served as Visitor’s Advocate for Leuktra. They would agree between them who should send word to Daimachos’ family in Boeotia. Meantime he would be buried here in Athens, most likely for a year or so to let his body decay. Then whoever mourned him could come to collect his bones. I wondered if they would have the consolation of knowing that his killer had been caught. Hopefully. Securing justice for Hermaios was his family’s duty and they were right here in Athens.

  Even so, I decided, I could do a little more to help without running any sort of risk that would worry Zosime. I would give Hermaios’ brother a copy of the list I’d discarded yesterday and Ikesios could explain what it meant. I’d make a copy for the Polemarch as well. Then everyone with an interest in these deaths would know who couldn’t be guilty and that should help them find the murderer’s trail all the faster.

  I threw back the blanket and went out into the porch in search of the papyrus. I really hoped that Kadous hadn’t tossed it onto the brazier’s last embers as he tidied up before bed. Outside, the courtyard was empty, and the bedroom door was shut. Belatedly, I realised I hadn’t heard a sound through the wall since I’d woken up.

  The Phrygian came out of his own room. ‘Zosime has gone into the city with Sosistratos and his wife. She said to tell you she’s going to meet her father for breakfast and then they’ll go and watch the musical contests.’

  His voice was neutral as befitted a good slave, but his eyes told me he thought I’d been a fool. Some men would thrash a slave for looking at them like that. Not me. Kadous had shared every step of my journey from long-haired youth like Ikesios to my current claim to modest fame as a playwright. My father had bought him as a young slave when my brother Lysanias had gone to the war in Egypt. Lysanias had died there, but Kadous had come home to let us know his fate. He could just as easily have started a new life in some city where nobody knew him for a runaway slave, but he had chosen to do our family that service. I had vowed to never forget it.

  Remembering our anguished wait for news of my brother made me think of Daimachos’ unknown family once again. I checked the sun. I had plenty of time to write those lists and get into the city and to the theatre before Hyanthidas took to the stage, even if he drew the first place in the competition lottery. The twin pipe players would compete last today. At the moment, the men and boys who accompanied themselves as they sang would still be warming up their voices and tuning their lyres.

  I turned to Kadous. ‘I left a papyrus out here last night. Do you know what’s become of it?’

  He nodded towards the unused dining room. ‘I put it on the table in there.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I glanced at our closed bedroom door, and felt guiltily relieved. At least I’d be able to go and get a clean tunic without making even more of a mess of things, because I still had no idea how I was going to apologise. I also noted that my beloved hadn’t paid me back in kind, by going out and leaving me to wonder where she might be and who she was with today. Zosime would never be so petty. That made me feel even worse about the way I had behaved.

  ‘Fetch me some water for washing, please, and whatever there might be for breakfast.’

  Sponging off yesterday’s sweat and dust definitely improved my morning. Clean clothes, some food and fresh water made me feel better still. I found the list was still just about legible and brought my writing table out of the dining room’s shadows over the porch. That gave me enough light to work without the sun drying out my inkwell.

  Sorting out papyrus and pens, I decided to make three fair copies. I knew Aristarchos would want to know what I had found out. Information
is currency for the great and the good, even when its value might not be immediately apparent.

  I stared at the creased and smudged sheet, and my good mood faded along with my resolve to be done with this wretched business. Who was I trying to fool? I still wanted to know what had happened to Daimachos and to Hermaios, whether or not I had any right to be involved. Well, I had better get over that, I told myself sternly, if satisfying my curiosity was going to cause strife between me and Zosime. I would get this task done and that would be an end to my part in this.

  I started work. I was very nearly finished when I heard a knock at the gate. My heart quickened. I hoped Zosime had come home. I would tell her how sorry I was, how I valued her above everything else. I’d show her these lists, and swear I was drawing a line under this bloody affair.

  Kadous opened the gate. Kallinos the Scythian stepped into the courtyard. Despite the hot day, my blood ran cold.

  ‘Menkaure?’ My throat closed with fear. ‘Zosime?’

  ‘What?’ Kallinos looked bemused.

  I carefully set down my pen. ‘Do you have some news?’

  ‘Yes. There’s been another attack on a poet wearing a red cloak.’ The Scythian seemed distastefully cheerful about that.

  That was none of my concern. I picked up my pen and began writing again. ‘Why are you telling me?’

  ‘I thought you would want to know.’ There was an unwelcome challenge in the Scythian’s words.

  I completed another careful line of writing. ‘I can’t think that anything I learned yesterday will be of use in finding this killer. I can only tell you the man you’re hunting is none of the poets.’

  ‘Let’s see what the man who was attacked can tell us, shall we?’

  Caught unawares, I looked up to see Kallinos grinning at me. It wasn’t a friendly smile. He looked like a keen-eyed hawk seeing a rabbit within easy reach.

  ‘The man survived. I only heard what had happened this morning. I thought you’d want to hear what he has to say.’