‘When it was clear he had no answer to give, the killer used his dagger.’ Aristarchos drummed his fingers on the papyrus in front of him. ‘He must have been taken somewhere out of sight to be questioned so brutally, but we have no idea where.’
Melesias spun around. ‘Forgive me.’
He strode out of the dining room, nearly knocking the bread off the table in his haste. I saw tears glistening on his cheeks in the lamplight.
‘Lydis.’ Aristarchos jerked his head and the slave hurried after Melesias.
I went to pour myself some more wine. ‘If we could discover where Hermaios was last seen, that might give us a place to start looking.’ I would have consulted my list of the poets to see if that helped me recall anything useful from the conversation in the tavern, but I realised Lydis had taken it with him.
Aristarchos nodded. ‘If we could find out where he was taken, that might suggest something about who has done this.’
As I looked over towards him, movement by the door drew my eye. Kallinos was looking at me with sardonic amusement. I realised why, and spoke up to save the slave the trouble of finding the right words.
‘Can we expect such a favour from the Furies? The man was carried through the heart of the city and set down dead for the Scythians to find without anyone noticing anything amiss. Suppose we manage to retrace Hermaios’ last steps. Where will that get us? If someone did see a scuffle, or hear somebody yelling, why should they remember it? The city’s full and there’s commotion everywhere.’
Aristarchos sighed. ‘Very true.’
Something else occurred to me now that the first shock of this news had faded. I looked at Kallinos. ‘What would you have thought, if you’d come across these murders and neither man wore a red cloak?’
The Scythian shrugged. ‘I’d say a man on his own murdered Daimachos, but Hermaios’ killer had help. It would take two men to restrain him, and to carry him through the city. My guess is they draped his arms over their shoulders and each took a good hold around his waist, like friends supporting a drunk.’
I looked at Aristarchos. ‘I realise Melesias Philaid has every reason to be distressed, but these two men died in very different ways. Can we be certain these deaths are connected? I know they were both talented performers, but surely they were many other things as well. Daimachos had a knack for making himself unpopular. I saw that for myself. He could easily have said the wrong thing to the wrong man and fallen victim to someone’s wine-fuelled rage.’
I looked into the cup in my hand, ‘What do we know about Hermaios Metrobiou? What sort of man was he? Even the most upright citizen can make enemies. If someone believed Hermaios owed them some debt, a great festival could be a good time to settle that score and disappear into a crowd. We don’t know the poor wretch didn’t tell his killer what he wanted, and got a dagger in the heart regardless.’
‘You think this could simply be some dreadful misfortune?’ Aristarchos looked doubtful. ‘Not an attempt to disrupt the festival?’
I remembered he’d mentioned that possibility when we’d met at the Temple of Zeus. I had to admit that killing two poets would wreck the Iliad’s performance more thoroughly than just killing one. But illness or accidents short of murder must always be allowed for, surely?
‘What happens now? Can the performance go ahead if the allotted poets aren’t here to tell the whole story?’
‘That’s what we were discussing when you arrived.’ Aristarchos rolled up the scroll he’d been studying. ‘Melesias has travelled far and wide during these past couple of years, to see as many different poets perform as he possibly could. He’s been determined to find the most talented men to participate, to give each poet the episode most suited to their skills.’
I spared a moment to envy the wealth that made such journeys possible, but that was outweighed by my sympathy. No wonder Melesias had been overcome at the prospect of so much hard work being for nothing.
Aristarchos was still speaking. ‘Thankfully, there are far more excellent poets than there are episodes in the Iliad, and a great many of them have come to enjoy the festival without such responsibilities. Any of them will jump at the chance to step up to the speaker’s platform.’
He surprised me with a faint smile. ‘I was persuading Melesias that the simplest solution is inviting the two best poets he knows are in Athens to take the dead men’s places in the roster, rather than reordering the entire performance so late in the day.’
‘That would risk causing confusion,’ I agreed.
‘It’s a recipe for disaster,’ Aristarchos said frankly. ‘Melesias would never consider such folly if he weren’t so overwrought. But I will make him see sense, if it takes me all night.’
He had no doubt that he would succeed, and I wouldn’t ever bet against him.
He tucked the re-rolled scroll into the basket. ‘We will choose two new poets to replace the missing men, and they’ll have tomorrow and the first two days of the festival to rehearse. It may not be the perfect offering to Athena that Melesias had envisaged, but he won’t be disgraced, even if he has aged ten years overnight.’
‘Because both those episodes take place on the last day of performance.’ I spoke the realisation aloud. ‘If this was truly an attack on the Great Panathenaia or Melesias, wouldn’t an enemy start with whoever was to give us the wrath of Achilles?’
‘That’s true.’ Aristarchos looked thoughtful. ‘Unless inflicting torment is the point. I don’t mean Hermaios’ suffering, but you’ve seen Melesias Philaid’s anguish. He could still be the one under attack.’
‘Can you think of anyone who hates him enough to be so calculatedly cruel?’ I remembered that he
