The slave shook his head. ‘He still had his purse and rings, just like Daimachos. He was stabbed, but this was no swift killing.’
I had no idea what he meant by that and the Scythian’s grim face was making me horribly uneasy. Before I could think how to make our farewells and leave, Kallinos had questions of his own.
‘What have you learned about this morning’s dead man?’
‘His name was Daimachos of Leuktra. Two of the other epic poets recognised these rings as his. He left the tavern where they had been drinking on his own last night, and no one has seen him since yesterday evening.’
I drew the thong with the rings over my head and offered it to the Scythian, before nodding at the bundle Hyanthidas was holding. ‘We went to his lodgings to make sure he wasn’t sleeping off a bellyful of wine. No one there’s seen him either. We brought his possessions away for safe keeping.’
‘Before scavengers picked the room clean.’ The Corinthian offered the cloak and its contents to Mus, but the Scythian took it instead.
‘The master wishes to see you.’ The big barbarian still has the accent of his remote homeland, and that’s as thick as strong cheese, but no Hellene could fault his fluency with our language.
That didn’t mean I understood what he meant. ‘Me? Why?’
But Kallinos was already striding away towards the inner courtyard, carrying the bundle holding the remnants of Daimachos’ life.
‘I’ll be off,’ Hyanthidas said quickly. ‘If an Athenian’s been killed, this is no business of mine. I’ll head back to Alopeke. Someone needs to let Zosime know what’s going on. I’ll tell her you’ll be back later.’
I couldn’t argue with any of that, and besides, I hadn’t forgotten that my friend was here to compete in the Great Panathenaia. He deserved to spend tomorrow practising with his twin pipes, not hunting killers.
‘Give Zosime my love, and say I’m sorry. Tell her I’ll be home as soon as I can.’
‘I will,’ Hyanthidas assured me.
I watched Mus close the gate behind him. The big slave picked looked at me expectantly.
I realised something. There were lights behind the shutters of the upper-storey rooms around this outer courtyard, and the muted hum of quiet conversation, but there was nowhere near the noise I’d heard as we’d passed other houses. ‘I thought your master was expecting visitors.’
‘They’ll arrive in the morning.’ Mus grinned. ‘The mistress is satisfied that everything is ready, so we can take the evening to relax.’
Everyone except me, apparently. But I supposed that explained why Aristarchos wanted to see me now, if he was going to be busy tomorrow.
I headed across the paving towards the archway. All four sides of the inner courtyard were sheltered by porches furnished with benches and stools, and a door stood open in one corner, spilling lamplight into the night. Kallinos stood there, beckoning impatiently. I walked over, trying not to show my curiosity.
I’d never been into Aristarchos’ private dining room before. There is a larger room for entertaining off the outer courtyard, where I had dined a couple of times, and where I’d seen his older sons welcoming their well-born friends. This inner room was the master of the house’s domain though, and no one entered without his personal invitation. As such, the room reflected Aristarchos’ noble and ancient heritage, his good taste, and the substantial income from the family’s properties spread across Attica.
The floor was an intricate mosaic of oval leaves arrayed in interlocking circles of russet and dark grey on a background as pale as sand. Lampstands in all four corners showed me the walls were exquisitely painted to give the impression of walking into a countryside bower of fig trees that overlooked sheep-filled pastures on one side and fields of grain on the other. The choice of those particular trees was no mere artistic flourish. Aristarchos is a Phytalid, descended from Phytalos who gratefully received the very first fig sapling from divine Demeter.
The ledges around the walls were furnished with luxuriously cushioned dining couches where men of equally impressive lineage would recline to eat and drink and discuss the concerns of those who identify themselves with a clan name. The rest of us simply honour our father and the place where we live, not least because we only have one place to live.
No one was reclining and relaxing tonight. There were two round tray-tables set on three-legged stands in the centre of the room. One held a jug of wine, several cups and a bowl of olives, as well as a basket of bread and a plate of sliced dark meat and salad leaves, Everything looked untouched. I guessed the guest this had been provided for was the man pacing up and down the room.
‘But if he gives us Hera’s seduction of Zeus, then Tellias could give us the gods going to war.’ He ran a distracted hand through his mop of greying curls as he looked desperately around, as if he expected some solution to his problems to appear in those painted scenes.
The man was old enough to be my father, wearing a plain wool tunic and with a single ring on one hand. That was a carved onyx seal, for use rather than ostentation. He had the thick waist and soft jawline beneath his beard of someone who spends his days at his leisure rather than busy in a workshop. I guessed he didn’t spend much time at the Academy or the Lyceum’s training grounds either.
‘But Tellias is expecting to give us Zeus’ seduction by Hera, and if you ask Nikeratos instead, who takes on the Trojans at the wall?’ Aristarchos was sitting at the other table. There was a basket of scrolls on the floor beside his stool and he was studying one spread out before him. His personal slave, Lydis, was standing behind him. He looked up as I came further into the room. Kallinos stayed standing by the door.
Aristarchos picked up his own cup and gestured at
