Ikesios knocked at the third door along the shaded walkway. There was a muffled clatter inside, and the door opened. A younger man than I’d expected blinked at us uncertainly. He was no beardless youth, but he must be a good few years younger than me.
‘Eupraxis!’ Ikesios greeted him a little too warmly. ‘We’ve come to congratulate you.’
So I had guessed right. Ikesios wouldn’t have expected this honour for himself, not while he was still learning his craft, but he couldn’t help a little envy that Eupraxis had been awarded this opportunity so early in his career.
‘Thank you.’ Eupraxis looked as if he still had to make up his mind about whether he’d been blessed or cursed.
He made no move to step away from the door, to invite us in. But he didn’t fill the entrance like Mus and, looking past him, I saw a scroll unrolling itself across the floorboards. The sound we had heard had been Eupraxis knocking over the basket I could see lying on its side.
‘Better pick that up,’ I said cheerfully.
As Eupraxis turned to see what I meant, I stepped forward. The poet took a pace backwards without thinking, and before he could object we were inside.
I picked up the scroll and saw that it was indeed Homer’s sublime poetry, liberally annotated with squiggles of ink and underlining that meant nothing to me. ‘Refreshing your memory, I see.’
‘A good idea.’ Apollonides set the basket upright and took the scroll from me to reroll and replace it.
Eupraxis sat down on the narrow bed. There were two stools, so I took one while Apollonides took the other. Ikesios leaned against the wall by the unshuttered window. The ringing notes of metal being worked floated up from the courtyard, underscored by the intermittent dull roar of bellows stirring the furnaces’ flames.
‘I have three days to prepare.’ Eupraxis sounded as if he didn’t quite believe it. His accent was almost Athenian, and I recalled how many of the city’s poor had been offered land grants in Lemnos in recent years. I guessed that explained his ties to this workshop.
‘Is the gods joining the war an episode you’re particularly celebrated for performing?’ I asked as casually as I could. ‘Had you hoped to offer it to the audience here?’
Eupraxis stared at me oddly intently. I realised where I’d seen that expression before. One of my mother’s brothers has eyes that are weaker than most. Anything more than a spear’s length away is indistinct to my uncle, and within a bow shot, the whole world is a blur to him.
‘No,’ the poet said after a moment. ‘I mean, I performed this episode in the contest in Epidaurus last year, at the Asklepion. It was very well received, but I didn’t win the prize. I came to watch the Great Panathenaia contest, to see what I could learn to improve my style. I never expected I’d be called on to perform. I could name ten men I would have expected to see called forward first. Though of course, I am most grateful to tireless Athena for this singular honour.’
His voice rose with a hint of panic, and I wondered what Melesias could have been thinking when he chose this particular poet. I hoped Athena and the Muses knew what they were doing.
Ikesios stepped forward from the wall by the window. ‘You should have won. Hermaios was so impressed that he told me to remember what I had seen, so I might learn from you.’ There was no hint of envy in his voice now, just honest admiration.
‘Truly?’ Eupraxis’ expression brightened like a flower touched by the sun.
I was still trying to find answers that might lead us to Hermaios’ killer. Unfortunately this conversation was only showing me more passages in this labyrinth. ‘Was Theokritos Polytimou one of the poets you would have expected to see called on, if another man was unable to perform?’
‘Of course.’ Eupraxis didn’t hesitate.
‘And you say there are others?’ I looked around the room and saw a pen box on the small table. ‘May I use some of your ink?’
‘Of course.’ He was still confused.
‘Please tell me their names.’ I dragged my stool over and took the papyrus out of my belt. ‘We’re trying to find out who killed Daimachos of Leuktra and Hermaios Metrobiou. Please, will you help us, on behalf of Melesias Philaid?’
‘You think – you think – they died by the same hand?’ Eupraxis was horrified. ‘You think another poet killed them?’ In the next breath he was outraged. ‘Why?’
I didn’t think he’d want to hear it was because we couldn’t come up with any other possibility. I chose my words carefully as I opened his inkwell and dipped in a reed pen.
‘We want to make sure no other poet could have done this foul deed – these deeds. We can free you all from the burden of suspicion, if we find witnesses to where each man was when these murders were committed. We must be certain though, and not just of the poets here to perform the Iliad. Someone else might have thought they could profit from these killings and take to the speaker’s platform. We cannot risk allowing a man whose hands are stained with another’s blood to defile the festival by taking part.’
That possibility horrified Eupraxis as much as me.
‘Hades forfend! When did they die?’
I told him, as far as we could know.
‘I was here, in the hours when Daimachos must have been killed.’ he insisted. ‘The night-watch slave can vouch for that. I spent yesterday afternoon with Epilykos of Klazomenai. We haven’t seen each other since the last Nemean Games so we had a lot of news to share. There were several others with us.’ He listed three of the Ionian performers who were already on my list.
I dutifully noted that down, but I hadn’t forgotten my original question. ‘Please, can you tell me who else might have been called on
