As the lithe slave stepped forward, the other man stopped pacing. With his jaw slack, he looked at me as if he had no idea where he was or why.
Aristarchos’ smile came and went so swiftly I could have told myself I had imagined it. ‘Melesias Philaid, may I present Philocles Hestaiou of Alopeke.’
‘The playwright?’ Melesias forced a courteous nod. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you. I thought The Hounds was a very entertaining piece. I particularly liked the debate over the best way to hunt rats and mice. A fine way to make the point that different tasks need different skills, and that new arrivals need not be seen as a threat.’
‘Thank you.’ I could see he was making an effort to be polite, but there was no doubt that he’d been paying attention to my play. I took the cup of amber wine that Lydis offered me, and found it a light and fragrant mix.
‘Melesias is a great supporter of the arts,’ Aristarchos commented. ‘Most particularly of poets.’
That explained why he’d been put in charge of organising the Homeric performances, out of all the festival commissioners chosen by the gods in the lottery. The muses had definitely tipped the scales there.
Distress creased the plump man’s amiable face. ‘The Iliad. I have spent so long—’
He couldn’t go on, and I couldn’t blame him. Writing a play for the Dionysia had dominated my life for the months between the honour of selection to the day of the competition. A commissioner for the Great Panathenaia serves a four-year term, from the first morning after one festival has ended to the triumphant conclusion of the next. They have to. There’s so much to do and get done. Now, after so much time and effort freely spent in Athena’s service, Melesias was facing a disaster that would be the talk of every Hellenic city from beyond the Pillars of Hercules to those facing the Persians across the rivers of the east. He didn’t deserve that, and not just because he’d said nice things about my play.
‘What have you learned?’ Aristarchos asked me.
I explained why I believed this morning’s dead man was Daimachos of Leuktra. When I said I had retrieved his property, Kallinos stepped forward to take the thong with the rings from me and tuck it inside the bundled cloak.
‘I have your list.’ I took the creased and blotted parchment from my belt. Aristarchos nodded and Lydis took it from me. The slave’s lips quirked as he saw what I had done with it.
‘There are only six others unaccounted for, and from the way they were described, Daimachos has the greatest resemblance.’
Melesias nodded, grimacing. ‘It must be him. I thought it could be. The dead man was of the right stature and looked to be of the same age.’
Even in the lamplight, I could see that he had gone pale. If he’d seen the corpse, it wasn’t surprising that he had no great appetite for food. I found I wasn’t as hungry as I’d thought either, after an unbidden recollection of Daimachos’ smashed head.
‘Kallinos said there has been a second killing?’ I braced myself for more stomach-churning news.
‘Hermaios Metrobiou.’ Melesias’ voice rose with anguish as he started pacing again. ‘He was to give us his rendition of Priam’s appeal to Achilles. That concludes the entire performance. People don’t appreciate that it’s such a demanding episode. Think of it though. The poet stands alone before the audience so late on the third day. He has to hold their attention, to command their emotions, after they have been caught up in the highest of high drama for so long. Few poets are equal to such a challenge. Hermaios’ approach was going to be truly masterful. We discussed it only the other day. For him to die, and so violently, leaving his loved ones and his friends bereft…’
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
