I was relieved to see he wouldn’t blame me if there weren’t. Aristarchos is a realist as well as scrupulously fair. Of course, that blade has two edges. He would reward whoever led us to the truth, and he would be just as intent on seeing the guilty punished. But I was getting ahead of myself. We had a long way to go before anyone could be accused of murder before the Areopagus Court.
‘Can you tell me who Melesias will be asking to make up the roster for the Iliad?’
‘I managed to persuade him to assign two well-regarded poets as direct replacements,’ Aristarchos said with heartfelt relief. ‘Eupraxis of Lemnos will take on the episode that was allocated to Daimachos, and Theokritos Polytimou of Prospalta will conclude the performance.’
I repeated the names to myself, to make sure I didn’t forget them before I got my hands on a pen and some ink.
‘Is that everything you needed to ask me?’ Aristarchos glanced towards the door.
‘It is.’
I had barely spoken when Lydis reappeared with a soft leather drawstring bag and a tense expression as he addressed his master. ‘The mistress asks where you are.’
‘I’m coming.’ Aristarchos took the pouch of coin from the slave and handed it to me. ‘Call here around dusk if you can. If I’m not free to see you, tell Lydis everything you’ve learned.’
‘Of course.’ I followed them out of the dining room. As they headed for the inner courtyard, I turned towards the gate. Before Mus opened it, I dropped the bag of money down inside my tunic, where it was held secure by my belt.
I was glad I was wearing a loose tunic, though I’d been thinking about the heat when I dressed today, not planning on hiding a substantial sum of money. I was also glad I’d have company if I was going to be walking the length and breadth of the city. Any thief who took this much coin off me could take the festival as a holiday and still go home in profit. The weight pressed against my belly, and the challenge I faced weighed on my mind.
Apollonides and Ikesios looked a lot more cheerful than I felt as they chatted, leaning against the opposite wall. As soon as they saw me, they straightened up, expectant. I was reminded again of Apollonides’ performance in The Hounds.
‘Well?’ Ikesios demanded.
‘Aristarchos Phytalid asks that you tell Hermaios’ family whatever we learn about his death. Please assure them that we are only trying to help them see justice done.’
‘Of course.’ He nodded. ‘And—’
‘Eupraxis of Lemnos will give the gods going to war, and Theokritos Polytimou of Prospalta will perform Priam’s appeal to Achilles.’
Ikesios stood motionless, looking like a particularly fine example of the sculptor’s art. Then he nodded, resolute. ‘Theokritos will give a fine performance. He will honour Hermaios’ memory.’
His attempt to stay dispassionate was undermined by the quiver of his lips. Then he shook his head, more openly surprised. ‘Eupraxis, though. I wouldn’t have expected that.’
‘What are we going to do, now that we have the full roster?’ Apollonides nodded at the papyrus still tucked through my belt. With Ikesios’ help in the tavern, we had compiled a full list of the Iliad’s episodes, and the poets who were to perform each piece. ‘And did they feed you a whole roast fowl while you were in there?’
I gently patted my newly acquired paunch to prompt a discreet chinking of silver. ‘Aristarchos reckons poets must get thirsty while they’re rehearsing.’
‘So are we starting with Achilles and his sulks?’ Apollonides looked from me to Ikesios.
One thing we hadn’t been able to agree on was which poet to talk to first, to establish where everyone had been when Hermaios had been murdered.
‘I’d like to talk to the men who’ve benefited most directly from these two tragedies.’ I looked at the youth. ‘Do you know where Eupraxis is staying?’
Ikesios nodded, confident. ‘In Kerameikos.’
I was even more relieved to have them both with me. ‘Let’s go and see how he’s taking the news of his unexpected honour.’
‘Yes, let’s.’ There was a glint in Ikesios’ eye.
Apollonides and I exchanged a glance as we let him lead the way. Apollonides was amused. I was more thoughtful.
We made our way through the agora, which was even busier than it had been yesterday. I kept my arms folded across my belly and wished I had worn a cloak, however hot that would have been. As it turned out, we passed through the marketplace without the slightest incident. I couldn’t relax though. The Kerameikos district was heaving like an anthill poked with a stick, as locals and visitors alike sought its brothels and other entertainments, much to the irritation of artisans like Zosime’s father, Menkaure, who live there. It’s a district that has always welcomed foreigners with open arms, as residents to toil in its workshops, or visitors with purses to empty.
Eupraxis was lodging in a small-scale bronze foundry not far from the Panathenaic Way and overlooked by the Temple of Hephaistos. The slave in charge of the entrance recognised Ikesios and nodded the three of us through with a grunt.
The lame god of smiths would approve of the industrious slaves and youths busy cleaning and polishing household fittings and ornaments fresh from the casting moulds. Older, serious-faced men tended the hearths and the crucibles of molten metal, and a small slave girl was busy going from furnace to furnace carrying cups of water for the artisans, dipped from a great stone jar by the gate. We could feel the heat of the fires across the courtyard, and I didn’t envy anyone working here at this scorching time of year.
The lad led us to a wooden stair giving access to a row of upper rooms above a charcoal store. Grimy slaves filling
