He took his stool and picked up his cup. His lips moved silently as he poured the first sip. Whatever his prayer might be, that was between him and whichever god or goddess he addressed. Then he took a long drink and turned to me. His voice was steady and his face was determined.
‘So who are you, and what can I do to help avenge Hermaios?’
Chapter Seven
Talking everything through with Apollonides and Ikesios did at least help me get my thoughts in order. Ikesios begged pen, ink and papyrus from his friend who owned the tavern and we made a list of questions that needed answers. I should have done this sooner, I realised. I always think more clearly with a pen in my hand.
Armed with the rolled papyrus stuck in my belt, we headed into the city. The street outside the Phytalid house was busy with arriving guests. Trusted household slaves ushered visiting family inside for refreshment and to wash away the dust of their journey. Sweating slaves weighed down with baskets and chests waited mute and weary until they were summoned to deliver their burdens to their masters’ and mistresses’ accommodation.
‘You two wait here.’ I judged my moment and headed across the gravel as Mus was about to close Aristarchos’ gate behind my patron’s eldest son Xenokrates.
Mus paused, holding the gate ajar. ‘Yes?’
‘My compliments to your master, and may I please see him, very briefly?’
Mus surprised me with a prompt nod. ‘He wants to see you. Who’s he?’
He gestured across the street, and I saw he meant Ikesios. He already knew Apollonides from our rehearsals here.
‘Ikesios Menexonou of Piraeus. The devoted friend of Hermaios Metrobiou.’
Mus opened the gate a little wider. ‘Come in.’
He clearly only meant me, so I waved at the others and went inside. Mus closed the gate and summoned a passing slave. ‘I need Lydis.’
The slave hurried off. I took a seat in the outer courtyard as Mus opened the gate to more of the household’s slaves returning from the agora with baskets of provisions.
I could hear voices and laughter in the inner courtyard. A few moments later, a young woman appeared in the archway, wearing the long decorous dress of a citizen, and the jewellery of a wealthy one. She clapped her hands loudly. ‘Thraitta!’
A girl hurried through a door, her head obediently ducked. As they went back through the arch, I guessed the young woman was one of Aristarchos’ daughters. I knew it was his wife’s custom to call the household slaves by the same name, to save the bother of learning what they called themselves. I had never actually met any of the Phytalid women. The more well-born and well-connected an Athenian citizen wife or daughter is, the less she has to do with anyone outside the well-guarded circle of her family and their equally exalted friends.
I realised I’d seen no sign of Hipparchos, Aristarchos’ youngest son. I wondered if he had been sent away to the country again as penance for some foolishness. That had been the price he had paid before, after getting mixed up in dangerous stupidity that could have ended in lifelong disgrace or worse. I had thought he had learned that lesson.
Aristarchos appeared with Lydis at his heels. As he summoned me with a gesture, the slave hurried past him to open the door to the outer courtyard’s dining room. We stepped into the welcome cool. The room was furnished for entertaining, but Aristarchos made no move to sit down.
‘Well?’
‘I can’t find any reason to believe that Hermaios died for a personal quarrel.’ I told him what we had learned from Ikesios.
He nodded, exasperated, though not with me. ‘I sent Lydis out with some letters last night, to make a few discreet enquiries. No one can suggest anyone who could be striking at Melesias Philaid so foully. No one can think of anyone who would even want to trip him in the street. He takes no interest in drafting new laws to be put before the Assembly. He hasn’t pursued anyone through any of the courts as long as I’ve known him, and I can’t recall him being summoned to defend himself against the most trivial charge. He devotes himself to nurturing poets and musicians.’
I had never seen Aristarchos show such frustration.
‘So we must look for the answer among the poets here to perform the Iliad.’ That was the conclusion I’d reached with Apollonides and Ikesios. Primarily, it must be said, because that seemed to be the only place left to look.
Aristarchos stared at me, incredulous. ‘You think one of them has done this?’
‘It seems unlikely, I grant you,’ I admitted, ‘but the only things these two dead men have in common are their red cloaks and their performer’s staffs. At very least, one of the other poets must know something that will offer the key to unlock this. Hermaios Metrobiou had a young lover; an epic poet he was teaching their trade. He’s a citizen from a good family who can give evidence in court if needs be, and he can vouch for me with the Great Panathenaia performers. I propose we go and ask every last one of them what they think is going on. For a start, we can identify any man who can’t find others to vouch for him in the hours when Hermaios must have died as well as the night when Daimachos was murdered. Anyone like that must surely come under suspicion.’
Aristarchos considered this, then nodded decisively. ‘This Ikesios can also keep Hermaios’ family informed of whatever we learn. Vengeance is their duty first and foremost, whatever we might do to help.’ He glanced at Lydis. ‘Fetch enough silver to loosen some tongues.’
I hadn’t expected that, and tried to find a way to say thank you as the slave hurried away.
Aristarchos
