Each black amphora, with its bold depiction of the goddess and scenes from the games, must hold exactly the designated quantity of olive oil harvested from Athena’s sacred groves under her priests’ watchful gaze. It must be made in the traditional shape and decorated to an approved design signed off by the festival commissioners. With the generous prizes on offer for the musical and poetry contests, and for each of the three classes of men, youths and boys in every athletic competition, Menkaure had told us that close to fifteen hundred amphorae were needed, and that was after accounting for wastage in the kiln and elsewhere. Then there were the half, quarter, eighth-sized and even smaller replicas that the chosen workshops are allowed to make and sell to visitors who want a souvenir of their visit, to cherish at home or to dedicate in a temple to whichever god had kept them safe on their journey.
Thinking about making plans to meet him reminded me I still hadn’t called on my family. At least I knew when they would be expecting me for dinner. The last day of the holiday would see citizens and their guests feasting on the meat from the sacrifices to bright-eyed Athena that are made by her priests high on the Acropolis. Since the Great Panathenaia is a festival where resident foreigners take part in some of the rites, Mother would be happy to welcome Zosime to share in the celebration.
All that would have to wait. I went and roused Kadous to tell him where I was going and that he should be ready to escort Zosime into Athens. Then I headed for the high road.
As I walked, I wondered if we were looking for a single killer, whatever his reasons might be. Would Hermaios’ murder make it easier to catch him? If one man was indeed responsible, we could stop suspecting anyone whose presence elsewhere could be vouched for in the hours when both Daimachos and Hermaios must have died. Though for all we knew, just about anyone else in Athens could be guilty, citizen, resident foreigner or visitor. The Scythians couldn’t ask them all where they’d been.
We needed some definite scent to follow if we were to bring anyone to trial before the Areopagus Court, where Athena had insisted Orestes stand trial for his father’s killing in the days of the heroes. The Furies had followed the scent of the blood that stained him like hunting hounds pursuing a wounded deer. I humbly asked those fearsome goddesses of justice to sniff us out some lead.
As I promised them I would do my part, I decided the first thing I needed to know was when Hermaios had last been seen alive. I also decided Zosime was right. I needed someone at my side when I went to see his grieving family.
Apollonides lives with his widowed mother and his three sisters in the Kollytos district. His father died towards the end of last winter. For the moment, they defer to his uncle, his father’s older brother, as head of the family, but it won’t be long before a suitable marriage will be arranged for my friend. He will do his duty as an Athenian citizen and an only son. With Hera and Demeter’s blessing, he’ll raise a boy to bear his father’s name, and see his sisters well settled in good marriages.
As I tapped quietly on their gate, I hoped I would find him at home. Apollonides would be a good husband to the wife his mother and uncle chose for him, but given the choice, he took male lovers. In recent months, he’d been making the most of his last days of freedom.
A mild-faced slave opened the gate. He knew who I was, but he looked surprised to see me this early. ‘Yes?’
‘May I speak to Apollonides? I don’t want to disturb the household,’ I added hastily.
The slave was old enough to have seen most things and to know not to ask pointless questions. ‘Please step inside.’
I waited by the gate while he went into the house. Apollonides soon appeared and I was relieved to see he was clear-eyed. He must be saving his strength for whatever pleasures the upcoming festival nights would offer.
‘What brings you here when the cockerels are still yawning?’ He ushered me to a bench by the wall.
‘Do you know a man called Hermaios Metrobiou?’ I quickly told him what had happened to the poet, though I spared him the details of the dead man’s torment.
Apollonides was horrified. ‘That’s awful.’
‘I’m so sorry. Were you friends?’ If I’d known, I would have chosen my words more carefully.
Apollonides shook his head, still appalled. ‘I’ve seen him perform, but we’ve never said much more than hello to each other. But what has any of this got to do with you?’
‘He’s not the first of the poets here to perform the Iliad who has been killed.’ I explained as succinctly as I could. That still took long enough for the slave to reappear with sliced melon and yesterday’s bread with a dish of olive oil to soften it. He put everything on the bench between us, and fetched a jug of fresh water and two cups.
I waited for Apollonides to get over his shock, and helped myself to some food. ‘What can you tell me about Hermaios? How old was he?’
After a moment’s thought, he answered me. ‘The same age as us, maybe a year or so older. Not much past his thirtieth year, anyway. He was a talented performer, very good indeed. He could stir an audience with any of the epics, but his Homer was particularly fine. Given time, he could have been truly great.’
‘Did anyone resent that?’ I remembered the poets in the tavern had been ready to overlook Daimachos’ obnoxious personality for the sake of his skills. Perhaps that dreadful
