Food and drink went forgotten for the moment as the poet up on the stone platform held the audience enthralled. He was Odysseus rebuking those Achaeans whose resolve for the war on Troy was faltering. Over to one side, Melesias Philaid and the competition’s judges were enthroned on tall chairs of woven cane, holding the forked staffs that are the symbol of their office. They were watching the dramatic performance intensely. Melesias was perched on the edge of his cushioned seat, and his gaze flickered from the poet striding back and forth to the men who were sitting alongside him. He might just as well have relaxed and enjoyed this reward for his efforts. The judges’ faces gave nothing whatsoever away to anyone who might be here to cheer on a friend, or to place bets on the contest’s outcome.
Not everyone was so restrained. Close to the front of the audience, I caught a glimpse of a small boy springing to his feet, his little fists clenched. He was maybe six or seven years old, and he stood poised like an athlete ready to run. His unblinking gaze was fixed on the poet and his young face was too full of emotion for words.
I realised he didn’t know this story yet. This poet’s passion had convinced the lad there was every chance these Achaeans would leave their tents and head for their ships to sail home. I could see those seated closest by smiling at the youngster with indulgent amusement. For a moment, my own spirits lightened, as I contemplated the delights that lay ahead for the child as he learned all the great stories of the gods and heroes. He was embarking on a journey longer than Odysseus’ voyage home, and would see more marvels than the wily Ithacan ever encountered.
But I was here to stop a real-life tragedy, or at very least, I had to try.
Chapter Ten
I looked around and saw several Scythians making their way through the crowd around the edge of the assembly space. The armoured slaves didn’t seem to be responding to any particular threat and I breathed a little easier.
I couldn’t see Kallinos anywhere, and there was no sign of Ambrakis either, but it was going to be much harder to pick the bodyguard out of the crowd with everyone dressed much the same. In Athens you have to get up close to see the differences that money makes in someone’s appearance. Even then, the wealthy who have their wits about them generally take care not to advertise their good fortune too openly on the streets.
Finally I saw a Scythian face I recognised and started making my way towards him. People looked at me with varying degrees of irritation and confusion as I ducked past, trying not to obscure their view of the performance too much.
By the time I reached the Scythian I’d remembered his name. ‘Dados.’
He nodded. ‘Philocles.’
I looked around. ‘Where’s Kallinos?’
‘Called away.’
I should have remembered Dados was a man of few words. That didn’t mean he was a fool.
‘Do you know why?’
‘Uproar in some tavern.’
I was just relieved to know Kallinos hadn’t been summoned to another dead body in an alley.
‘Do you know if he managed to speak to the poets here, to tell them what we know? To warn them they’re still in danger?’
Dados shrugged. ‘He spoke to several of the men in red cloaks. He told us to watch out for anyone who looks like trouble near the rest of them.’
His keen eyes were scanning the crowd as he spoke. I started looking as well, and soon picked out a poet wearing red. I couldn’t tell who it was. He was sitting among a group of men and women with his back to me. That didn’t matter. The cloak was enough. I looked around and spotted a couple more. They looked to be enjoying themselves with their friends watching the poet stride back and forth on the platform, his bold words captivating the vast audience. He had reached the recitation of Agamemnon’s allies, who were waiting with him to storm the gates of Troy.
Different groups in the crowd cheered as the litany of places and people began. A group of Boeotians stood up and cheered, each one in turn as their home towns were mentioned. I wondered if any of them had travelled here with Daimachos, and if they knew he was dead.
Other visitors waited for their own chance to honour their ancestors who’d sailed with the Argive fleet. Some of the audience shouted, telling them to sit down, but mostly people just laughed. Up on the speaker’s platform, the poet didn’t miss a beat as he paused just long enough for each cheer to be heard without ever losing his rhythm. Competing in the Great Panathenaia recitals called for far more skills than just remembering Homer’s words.
I was in no mood to appreciate any performance, however admirable. I surveyed the crowd and chewed my lip, frustrated. We might know the killer’s grievance now, but we still had no real idea what he looked like. From what little Thallos could tell us, he could be any one of the hundreds of men who were right here. Add to that, his task was so much easier than ours. He might not know exactly who he was hunting, but he only needed to pick off men in red cloaks one by one.
Was there any
