‘He wasn’t poor. He was just comfortable wearing his old clothes while he was at home.’
As I spoke that thought aloud, I straightened up and looked around. I soon saw what I was looking for. A bundle of salad leaves was scattered along the base of a wall, a short distance away. The agora might be off limits to vegetable-sellers for the rest of the Great Panathenaia, but the smaller local markets would still be busy. People still have to eat, and a lot of foodstuffs don’t stay appetising for long in this hot weather.
‘He lives near here. He was only going to buy some fresh greens, so he didn’t need to dress to impress anyone he might meet.’ I swallowed anger at the sadness this morning would bring to some unsuspecting household. ‘Someone’s waiting for him to come home.’
Then I realised something else. ‘The murderer must have been waiting for him. This can’t have been a chance encounter. The man we’re hunting must have known his habits. He must have known his victim would go out bright and early to buy his own provisions.’
‘Did this poor bastard bring the staff, or did the killer?’ Like me, Kallinos was thinking aloud, rather than expecting me to know.
I answered all the same, looking at the corpse. ‘I could believe he was an epic poet. If he’d heard what was going on, he might well have taken his staff for protection.’
‘And the bastard used it instead.’ Kallinos glared at the dead man.
It seemed a little unfair to blame the victim for his own murder. ‘If he hadn’t had it with him, this killer would have used his knife, don’t you think?’
I didn’t wait for the Scythian to answer. I walked towards the end of the alley where the gawkers were gathered. This crowd was mostly men, from greybeards to pimply-chinned youths. There was no telling who was slave or free, though it was probably safe to say the few women were either slaves or resident foreigners.
As those standing closest nervously began to retreat, I halted before they all scattered like wary hens. ‘Does anyone know of an epic poet who lives somewhere around here? A well-regarded performer? One worthy of competing in the Great Panathenaia?’
Someone I couldn’t see said something I couldn’t make out.
‘Please.’ I raised my voice. ‘By the gods above and below, help us put a name to this man. Help us see his murder avenged.’
Me confirming that this was a crime rather than some incomprehensible accident sent a shiver through the crowd. People began moving away, slowly at first, then more quickly as their paths away from this horror cleared. To my relief, not everyone was so eager to be gone before the Furies arrived to take note of their presence. As the street cleared, a handful of men remained, grim-faced.
A short, burly individual stepped reluctantly forward. ‘I may know this man, but as Athena is my witness, I have no idea what has happened here.’
‘We believe you,’ I assured him. ‘We just want to know who he is. Can you help us?’
I stepped to one side, with my arm outstretched to invite this good citizen further down the alley. He walked as slowly as someone wading through mud. He stopped a spear’s length short of the body and heaved a sigh.
‘Polymnestos Anytou. He lives a few streets away.’ He had no doubt about the dead man’s identity.
‘Do you know his profession?’
Our good citizen pointed at the broken staff. ‘He’s – he was an epic performer, and a good one. Don’t let that ragged tunic fool you. He liked to plead poverty when he haggled in the markets, but he made a good living here in Athens and at other cities’ festivals. He would usually spend at least half the year on the road.’
‘But he wasn’t competing in this Homeric contest?’ That had to be significant, surely?
Recollection prompted a sad smile from our informant. ‘He wrenched his ankle when he was giving our district brotherhood a recital of The Seven Against Thebes at the last Anthesteria. He’d been honouring Dionysos at the first opening of the new vintage a little too enthusiastically. It was a bad sprain, and he’s suffered from weakness on that foot for months. Taking his performance staff everywhere became a habit.’
He sighed again. ‘He didn’t put himself forward for this year’s Great Panathenaia. He said he would prefer not to compete, rather than risk offering an inadequate performance. I think he didn’t want his reputation to suffer, if people saw him holding back, compared to his recital last time. I’m still surprised that he didn’t win.’
‘At the last Great Panathenaia? He competed then? Offering an episode of the Iliad?’ I had to be certain. I hadn’t set foot on the Pnyx four years ago.
The good citizen was taken aback by my forcefulness. ‘Yes. He gave us the death of Patroclos. He was tremendously good, most impressive. We all thought he should get the winner’s garland.’
I nodded and bit back my exasperation, looking at Kallinos. ‘Will you take the bad news to his family? See that they collect the body?’
It wasn’t just that I had no wish to see any more grieving relatives. I needed to get to the Pnyx as quickly as possible.
‘I can.’ The Scythian looked at me curiously.
‘I’ll explain later.’ I hurried away before either of them asked me any more questions.
I made it before the second day of the Homeric performance started, at the price of getting hot and sweaty. It wouldn’t be long before the recitals began, so I didn’t have time to
