As we approached, he greeted me with a brief smile. ‘Philocles, thank you for coming. Forgive me for intruding on your day.’
His expression turned serious again, and his dark eyes were intent. I didn’t think this had anything to do with the Dionysia.
‘I know you wouldn’t ask to see me without good reason. Though I do have guests to get back to.’
Aristarchos valued straight talking. He acknowledged my duty as a host with a nod.
‘Our visitors arrive tomorrow, so my wife has her slaves rushing about. I thought we could meet here for some peace and privacy.’
I’d never met Aristarchos’ wife, but from what I knew of her, she was a formidable woman, and not someone I wanted to annoy by getting under her household’s feet. ‘So how may I help you?’
‘You know that a poet has been murdered. One of those here to take part in the Iliad’s performance? A relative of my wife, Melesias Philaid, is the festival commissioner in charge of the epic contest. As you might imagine, he’s appalled by this news.’
‘Understandably.’ That explained how Aristarchos knew about the death. The ties of family and obligation bind the wealthy as tightly as the rest of us. More tightly, sometimes. There are fewer of them and they marry each other. That’s another way they stay rich.
I didn’t bother asking how he’d heard I’d been caught up in this business. The great and the good of Athens have interests across the city, so they’re quick to hear about unforeseen events. Those who envy the oligarchs in cities like Corinth shrug and move on – unless they can see a way to profit. Men like Aristarchos accept their duty to see things put right.
He started walking, more slowly this time. ‘I sent for the Scythian who’s looking into this matter.’
‘Kallinos.’ I walked with him. Ambrakis followed us, ten or so paces behind.
‘The city slave who helped you secure justice for the dead man who was dumped at your gate.’ Aristarchos gestured past me towards the massive stumps of the unfinished pillars. ‘You don’t see great Zeus’s hand in that coincidence?’
‘I would never be so bold to presume to know the will of any god.’ I’m no such fool.
Aristarchos made a non-committal sound. ‘You and I both know there are men who wish this city ill-fortune, inside our walls and beyond. If the epic poetry competition is disrupted, Athens will be humiliated, as well as Melesias Philaid.’
‘Indeed.’ We’d had this conversation before, or one very like it. We had thought someone was trying to embarrass Aristarchos politically by trying to sabotage the Dionysia play he sponsored. Instead we uncovered a web of greed and malice when we tracked down the killers who’d left that corpse at my door.
‘Melesias has asked for my help, and now I am asking for yours,’ he said briskly. ‘We want to know what lies behind this killing. It may be a personal quarrel, or it may be something more. If there’s any threat to the Great Panathenaia, we have a duty to divine Athena, as well as to Olympian Zeus, to see that stopped.’
‘We do.’ I might not see a god’s hand in Kallinos being the Scythian who’d been sent to scrape the dead poet off that alley floor, but it was hard not to see some divine thumb on the scales.
Each year five hundred Council members are selected by lottery to serve the city, fifty from each of the tribes that every male citizen belongs to in order to vote. The festival commissioners are selected by another lottery, one for each tribe, from each group of fifty, to serve for the full four years between each Great Panathenaia. Those votes can’t be fixed. The commissioner in charge of the epic contest could just as easily have been a bean-chewing rower from the hovels of Piraeus as someone as well-born as Aristarchos. All Athenians are equal in our democracy, and our lotteries for official posts help ensure it.
Even so, there’s no denying that being born into an ancient family blessed with land and the wealth that flows from it does smooth a man’s path through life. So does having the right friends. Whether it was Zeus, Athena or the avenging Furies, some deity had brought this killing to Aristarchos’ attention. Some divine power must be confident that my noble friend had the influence and connections to see this murderer pursued, as well as the resolve not to shirk such a duty. Since I was one of those connections, it would be very unwise for me to offend that unknown god by saying no. Besides, the well-born and well-connected Melesias Philaid might need a writer for hire some time…
‘What can I do to help?’
‘We need to know the dead man’s name. Since he’s been left unrecognisable, someone needs to track down the poets who were drinking in that tavern last night. If they can be accounted for, then the rest of those here to perform the Iliad must be found, and quickly.’
‘Someone’ meaning me. This wasn’t how I’d planned to spend the rest of my day. ‘The Scythians—’
‘The Scythians will be spread across the city keeping order even before the festival begins,’ Aristarchos said crisply. ‘You know what the Great Panathenaia is like. Someone else needs to pursue this killer, and you’ve proved your worth serving the Furies before.’
That’s the problem with doing a good job once – perhaps twice, if uncovering the truth behind another killing in Corinth counted. Do something right and you’re bound to be asked to do it again.
Aristarchos reached inside his tunic and took out a tightly rolled sheet of papyrus threaded through three ornate rings, one
