Dados pulled up and whistled again. I was prepared this time, but the sound was still ear-splitting. That pitch meant the signal cut through the noise of the crowd. Another whistle answered, and a burly Scythian stepped into the fleeing man’s path. The slave was close but not close enough. The fugitive veered away, heading for a road leading down from the Pnyx. I cursed again. We were going to lose him, and now he’d know he was hunted.
I’d underestimated the city slaves. With his attention split between the two of us behind him and the sudden appearance of that archer ahead, the man didn’t see the third Scythian, who stepped out from behind a wine cart. The slave thrust out a clenched fist, not to hit him, but to block his path. The running man had no hope of stopping. As his neck collided with the Scythian’s forearm, his feet shot clean out from under him. I swear he hung in the air for a moment, as horizontal as if he lay flat on his back in a bed. But he was at shoulder height with nothing at all to support him. The Scythian had calculated his move so precisely, I felt sure he had done that before.
The moment passed and the fugitive crashed down onto the bare rock. He lay so still that I wondered if he was actually dead rather than merely winded. As I walked towards him with Dados, I certainly couldn’t see any need for the heavy hobnailed foot the grinning Scythian planted on his prey’s chest. Whoever the fugitive was, he was going nowhere any time soon.
‘How did you manage that?’ I asked. ‘What do those whistles mean?’
Dados grinned. ‘Ask a Euboean.’
I waited for him to explain, but he didn’t say anything else.
As we reached the fallen man, Dados swung the quiver at his belt around behind his back and hunkered down to run his hands over the gasping captive with swift efficiency. ‘No knife.’
He startled me by seizing the neck of the fugitive’s tunic with both hands and ripping the cloth apart. As the tear reached the man’s navel to be stopped by his belt buckle, silver and gold gleamed in the sunlight. I saw bracelets and necklaces, even a couple of rings.
I recalled the heavy gold chain I’d seen shining around Timagoras’ neck. This man had been out to rob the poet, not kill him. I had no idea how he intended to do that, but street thieves can be infuriatingly successful.
Dados ripped a length of fabric off the man’s torn tunic and wrapped the stolen jewellery up in a secure bundle. He handed it to the Scythian who had put his foot back on the man’s bared chest. ‘Take him to the lock-up. I’ll spread the word.’
‘What word?’ I wanted to know.
Dados stood up. ‘Anyone missing something shiny should head for the city prison and try to convince Armenias they own something we’ve just found.’
His grin suggested that anyone offering a spurious claim was doomed to failure, as the Scythians hauled the wheezing man to his feet and marched him away. I had no further interest in his fate.
I looked around to see the recitation had just come to an end. The poet was standing in the centre of the speaker’s platform, and bowing to acknowledge the tribute of stamping feet and shouts of approval. After a few moments, he turned to depart. The next poet was already coming up the steps, prompting a fresh surge of raucous cheers.
The new arrival’s smile grew wide as he basked in this adulation. As he stretched his arms and rolled his shoulders like an athlete preparing to take on all comers, he tossed back a fold of his scarlet cloak. Then he strode to the centre of the platform and struck the close-fitted stones with the butt of the staff. The noise from the crowd subsided, not to silence – that would never happen up here – but to a susurration of anticipation.
‘Demokleides!’ A lone, ecstatic voice called out only to be hushed from all sides.
The poet planted the staff like a herald ready to share vital news. His gaze swept across the audience and his voice was as compelling as if he addressed each man, woman and child individually.
‘When the companies took their places, each obeying their leader, the Trojans advanced, shouting, raucous as birds…’
I made a swift decision. Even though this poet was the second man Ikesios had named as a possible seducer, I couldn’t believe the killer would try to strike here, under the watchful eyes of these Scythians. He’d have no chance to question his target about where to find the woman he sought. Even if he was simply intent on murder, he would see how slim his chances of escape would be. Whoever this evil man was, he wasn’t stupid.
I turned to Dados. ‘Tell as many of the poets as you can to watch their backs, while you’re spreading the word about that thief. Make certain you tell him, when he’s said his piece.’ I gestured towards Demokleides up on the speaker’s platform. ‘Tell them this killer’s hunting a man whom he believes has wronged his family somehow. If they have anything to confess, they should take it to Melesias Philaid.’
I didn’t imagine for a moment that Melesias would know what to do if someone came to him confessing adultery, but he was the festival commissioner responsible for selecting the poets. I was pretty sure that he’d go straight to Aristarchos, and I trusted my former patron to see to it that any information that could identify the killer was taken to the Archons, and to Hermaios’ family.
I tugged the crumpled lists from my belt and handed the rolled papyrus to the Scythian. ‘See that these are delivered to Aristarchos Phytalid. I’m going to the theatre to see the pipe players’ competition.’
There was nothing more I could do here, and I wanted to see my friend try for glory.
