The Ionian laughed. He was as well aware as the rest of us of the bloody fate that befell Marsyas when the satyr challenged the god, determined to prove the pipe’s superiority over the lyre. ‘Very wise. Let us all honour Apollo of the silver bow.’
He raised his cup and let the first sip fall to the floor as an offering. Everyone did the same, echoing his words.
‘And all honour to bright-eyed Athena.’ The Athenian poured a second, careful libation to soak away between the stones cobbling the earth underfoot.
‘May she ever look on us with blessings.’ I glanced in the direction of the Acropolis as I made my offering, and then took a welcome drink. I forced myself not to empty the cup, despite my thirst. I’d have asked for more water with the wine if that was my only concern. The mix I’d asked for was strong enough to loosen a few tongues, without encouraging the poets to get drunk.
The Athenian looked at me. ‘Twin pipe player, or lyre? Singer?’
‘I’m here on behalf of the festival commissioners.’ I pulled the rolled papyrus out of my belt. ‘At Melesias Philaid’s request.’
That got everyone’s attention. They all knew the name of the commissioner who was supervising their performance.
‘My name is Philocles Hestaiou of Alopeke.’ I unrolled the list. ‘May I ask who I have the honour of addressing?’
The Athenian introduced himself first. ‘Antiphon Antidotou of Daidalidai.’
The Ionian followed. ‘Epilykos of Klazomenai.’
As the rest introduced themselves, I found their names on the list and mentally ticked them off. That was nine accounted for out of twenty-four. Not a bad start. I looked up as Antiphon asked the obvious question.
‘How may we help the noble Melesias?’
I tried not to think of Zosime as I replied with another question. ‘Have you seen your fellow performers today? Who can tell me where they’ve been, and when?’
I saw the poets exchanging puzzled looks. Once again, the Athenian spoke first. ‘I saw Kallimedes buying honey cakes in the market just after noon.’
I could see the curiosity in his eyes, as the others chimed in with their recollections of the day’s encounters. I gave up trying to keep everything straight in my mind and dipped a finger in my wine to blur the first letters of each name. By the time the poets were done, I only had seven on my list unaccounted for.
‘What do these men look like?’ I named them one by one.
Antiphon looked thoroughly puzzled by now, but was still willing to oblige. ‘Sadocus is tall and lean, with a look of a startled deer about him.’
The poet couldn’t help adding that dramatic detail, but that didn’t matter. That couldn’t be the dead man. No one would call the corpse lean.
‘And the rest?’
Other voices chimed in around the table.
Epilykos the Ionian was getting impatient. ‘What is this about? We’re not required to present ourselves at the Pnyx until the day after tomorrow.’
A straight question deserved a straight answer. ‘The city’s Scythian slaves found a man in a red cloak dead in an alley just after dawn. We’re trying to find out who he was.’
They stared at me, lost for words as the heedless jollity of the tavern continued around us. I reached into the neck of my tunic and took out the dead man’s rings.
‘Do any of you recognise these?’ I pulled the leather thong over my head and passed it to the Ionian.
He studied the rings for a moment, shook his head, and passed them on. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier to see if one of us recognises this dead man?’ he asked warily.
I met his gaze. ‘His own mother wouldn’t know him. His injuries are too grievous.’
A shudder of horror ran through the poets like a breeze through a field of scarlet poppies.
‘What—?’ Epilykos broke off as he decided he’d rather not know any more.
That suited me. I was on the lookout for any sign that someone knew how viciously the dead man had been attacked.
‘How do you know this unfortunate is one of us?’ Antiphon wanted to deny this awful event, rather than distance himself from suspicion of guilt.
‘He wore a red cloak, and not just any red cloak.’ I gestured at the woven wool draping the Athenian’s shoulder. ‘It could have come from the same loom as your own. He carried an epic performer’s staff.’
Now that we were sitting with the poets, I could see their cloaks for the upcoming performance were all new. If the cloth hadn’t been woven by the same hands, it had surely passed through the same dye vat; once, twice and a third time to gain that rich, deep colour.
‘Excuse me.’ On the far side of the long table, a younger man’s voice shook. ‘I believe this gold ring belongs to Daimachos of Leuktra.’
His hand trembled as he passed the rings on the thong to the next man, an Aetolian. After a moment of shock, that grizzled poet studied the gold circle as best he could in the lamplight.
He bit his lip before nodding reluctantly. ‘It could well be. Yes, I think it probably is his.’
Leuktra is a Boeotian town and Daimachos was a Boeotian name. I checked my list and saw he was one of the poets no one had seen today. I looked at Antiphon. ‘Was he the loudmouth who was making himself unpopular last night? Saying it’s Athenian tyranny for the festival commissioners to insist you use copies of the same scrolls relating Homer’s poems?’
He looked at me, startled. ‘How do you know about that?’
‘I know more than you think.’ That had been my mother’s tactic, when she wanted to lure me and my brothers into confessing our part in some mischief. I saw no reason not to use her methods here. ‘Well? Was that him? Is that his name?’
‘Yes, but—’ Antiphon looked at the other poets for support.
