The law allows the head of a family to cut down any man caught violating the household’s women within his walls, but that legal right ends at the threshold.
‘Let’s hope so, with the Furies’ grace. But until we can put a name to this man, and be sure that he’s our killer, we had better warn the poets to watch their backs,’ Kallinos observed. ‘Thallos can say he thinks he fell foul of a street thief, and I won’t risk a flogging for betraying his trust, but I won’t see another man dead because he thinks the danger has passed.’
‘I agree.’ I nodded.
‘Still, we’ll know where to find most of the red cloaks, for the next few days at least,’ the Scythian said with satisfaction. ‘They nearly always go up to the Pnyx, to see the full performance before and after they take their own turn.’
That made sense to me. Every playwright sits through the whole of a drama competition, to see what his rivals have done. I felt a frisson of envy. Those poets who still had to take to the speaker’s platform would be able to review and revise their own performance in the light of what they’d seen and heard from the others in this contest. No playwright can make such last-minute changes in a bid to outstrip his competitors.
I reminded myself to concentrate on the here and now. At least I wouldn’t have to spend today retracing yesterday’s endless quest, if the poets were all up at the Pnyx. Then my elation faded. ‘Do you suppose the killer knows that too?’
Kallinos saw my point immediately. ‘Whether or not he does, it’s the obvious place for him to go hunting for them, now the Iliad recital has started.’
‘How many of your men can you get up there? How quickly?’ I didn’t wait for him to answer. ‘Go and do what you can. I’ll tell Aristarchos what’s going on.’
The Scythian loped off. I forced myself into a run. Delay might cost another innocent man his life, or perhaps the guilty one would be attacked. Either way, we needed men ready to catch the killer.
I was thoroughly out of breath when I reached Aristarchos’ house. I leaned on the wall for a moment and forced myself not to hammer on the gate like a messenger with news of a Persian invasion.
Mus opened the grille when I knocked with suitable decorum for this neighbourhood. ‘The master is not at home.’
I should have thought of that possibility. It was the first day of the festival after all. ‘Lydis? Ambrakis?’
Mus nodded. ‘Lydis is here.’
I blessed Athena for that. ‘I need to speak to him.’
Mus didn’t need to be told it was urgent. ‘Come in.’
As he opened the gate, he was already snapping his fingers at a passing slave. I waited, pacing back and forth in the entrance, too anxious to take a seat. Lydis soon appeared. I told him what I had learned today, both about the killer and his motives, as well as the danger that might threaten the poets gathered on the Pnyx.
He was nodding before I finished speaking. ‘I will go and tell the master. I’m sure he will send word to Melesias Philaid.’ He turned to the barbarian gatekeeper. ‘Send for Ambrakis. Tell him to gather the strongest of the household’s men and take them up to the Pnyx.’
I was surprised to see the slender slave give such orders on his own authority, but Lydis was Aristarchos’ trusted secretary and the rest of the household would know that. I watched him run down the street, deftly dodging out of anyone else’s way.
I looked at Mus. ‘I’m going to the Pnyx.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll tell Ambrakis.’
I hurried away. I hadn’t reached the end of the street when I realised the papyrus sheets were still rolled and thrust through my belt. I’d forgotten to give them to Mus or Lydis. I decided that didn’t matter now. Then I realised something else and my mouth dried with apprehension.
Eupraxis of Lemnos wouldn’t be up at the Pnyx, and nor would Theokritos Polytimou. They would be at home rehearsing, making sure they would honour Athena with their best performance after being called on at such short notice. When I’d called on Theokritos yesterday, I’d barely managed to get his attention long enough to answer my questions. He’d been striding up and down the courtyard of his comfortable Melite home absorbed in polishing his delivery.
I reached the junction and hesitated. Would the killer know these two poets had been chosen to replace his victims? Would he realise they were most likely honing their lines at home? Would either of them have slaves fool enough to open their door to a stranger? Would the killer force his way in regardless? There was no way to know, and in any case, that was irrelevant. As soon as either poet set foot on the street wearing that distinctive red cloak, they would be marked men as far as the murderer was concerned.
I glanced over my shoulder. There was no point going back to Aristarchos’ house. I had no authority to give orders there. I was the only one who could do anything about this. I started running, ignoring the protests from my weary feet. I told myself Zosime would understand, when I explained what I’d been doing to delay my arrival at the theatre.
Chapter Nine
Theokritos was as annoyed to be interrupted as he had been when I turned up yesterday. He was still perfecting his pacing, gestures and delivery for an audience of two dozing slaves and an interested dog. Everyone else must be out enjoying the Great Panathenaia whether they wanted to or not. When the master
