Chapter Twelve
When we found a free table outside a favourite tavern, I was ready for Menkaure’s curt question.
‘Well?’ the Egyptian demanded.
‘The Scythians have learned something new that might help them catch this killer.’ I shared the story of my day for a second time.
Menkaure was unimpressed. ‘But you still have no idea who this man is, or where to look for him.’
Clearly, he wasn’t convinced that I would be leaving this matter to the festival commissioners and the city magistrates, even after I’d stressed the way I’d handed off responsibility to Dados. I’d told them I’d left the Scythian to watch over the poets, and to see that Aristarchos and Melesias were told of the latest developments. Apprehensive, I looked at Zosime to see if she thought the same.
My beloved looked ruefully at me. ‘But you have to see this through.’
Caught unawares, I stared at her. ‘But you said…’
‘You said this dead Boeotian could well have a family who deserve to see justice done. You’re right about that.’ Zosime glanced at Telesilla.
‘I know what it’s like to wait for letters from someone who’s working far away.’ The Corinthian woman drew Hyanthidas close with her arm around his waist, and rested her head on his shoulder. ‘When you don’t hear for a while, for longer than you expect, you tell yourself not to worry. You tell yourself it’s just that he couldn’t find someone travelling back home right now, or he’s been too busy to find the time to write. Even so, you can’t help the doubts and fears that creep into the back of your mind. What if the worst has happened? If I had ever heard – if a Visitor’s Advocate had ever turned up at our gate—ʼ
She shook her head to ward off such thoughts and looked straight at me. ‘I would hope and pray that the gods would find someone in that distant place to hunt down a killer on my behalf.’
Zosime managed a faint smile for me. ‘Just promise me that you’ll be careful. Don’t risk meeting this man on your own.’
‘I will, I mean I won’t, I swear it,’ I said fervently. The two women must have talked through last night’s quarrel. Of course Telesilla would have seen that Zosime was upset and asked why. I felt as if a weight I hadn’t known I was carrying had been lifted from my shoulders. I wasn’t going to be at odds with Zosime if I pursued this murderer. That was a relief because telling the tale again had rekindled my keenness to see justice done.
Menkaure still wasn’t looking happy, so I guessed he’d been arguing this was still none of my business. Before I could find anything to say that might persuade or reassure him, Zosime glanced at Telesilla.
‘I wonder who she is.’
‘The runaway?’ Telesilla frowned, concerned. ‘Do you suppose she’s heard about these murders?’
‘If she has, she must be terrified.’ Zosime looked at me with renewed resolve. ‘Whoever she is, you have to help her.’
As Telesilla echoed my beloved, I felt abruptly ashamed. I had been so focused on the guilt of the seducer, and on the hunt for a man who was so quick to kill to avenge his family’s dishonour, that I hadn’t spared a thought for the woman at the heart of this tragedy.
‘That’s definitely a new scent to follow. Find her, and you find your killer.’ Hyanthidas signalled to a slave who was serving the next table.
He was right, and that should have occurred to me sooner. However, just because something’s simple, that doesn’t mean it’s easy.
I grimaced. ‘This woman’s guardian, whoever he is, clearly doesn’t want his family’s shame made public. I know the courts are closed, and there’s no public business being done in the Council or the Assembly, but he could still take his grievance to the festival commissioners. They could demand the truth from these poets on pain of – something or other.’
I realised I had no idea what sanctions Melesias Philaid could threaten. Wouldn’t he be just as anxious as the poets to avoid a scandal that would cast a shadow over the epic contest?
‘Someone is bound to know,’ Hyanthidas insisted. ‘A household can’t keep something like that quiet for long.’
‘At least among their family and friends,’ I acknowledged. ‘That’s something else I can tell Aristarchos’ man to enquire about.’
Zosime snorted. ‘Lydis won’t learn anything useful. You said it yourself. No citizen will admit their household troubles to a slave, to any slave, and especially not to one owned by one of Athens’ richest men.’
‘That’s true.’ I sighed. ‘That’s why I think we need – why the festival commissioners need – one of the poets to accuse the guilty man. The others must have their suspicions.’ I shook my head, exasperated as well as frustrated.
Hyanthidas understood what I was feeling. ‘When they hear what Thallos has to say, someone will speak up, surely?’
‘Other women will know,’ Zosime said thoughtfully.
Telesilla nodded. ‘And word will be spreading fast.’
I know all sorts of gossip gets shared at the city’s fountains as wives and daughters fetch fresh water each morning, but I still didn’t see how that helped us. Then my blood ran cold. ‘You can’t go asking questions. We wouldn’t know where to start. Besides, if this man even heard a whisper—’
‘Not me.’ Zosime’s glance at her father forestalled Menkaure’s objections. ‘Citizen women won’t talk to a foreigner, not ones who don’t know me anyway, not about something like this.’
I was at a loss. ‘Then who?’
‘Your mother,’ Zosime said, as though it was obvious. ‘Your brothers’ wives.’
Now I really was lost for words. My mother grew up in the countryside out in Attica,
