I was right when I guessed Melesias Philaid would arrive bright and early. He was up on the speaker’s platform, chatting to the judges who had already assembled. Those well-born men were smiling and laughing, in complete contrast to the reserved demeanour they would present to the world once the competition was under way. Melesias was doing his best to seem equally relaxed, but his gaze kept flickering from the judges to the growing crowd and, in particular, to the handful of Scythians I could see. I understood his apprehension and I sympathised.
A sizeable audience had already gathered. This second day is an epic in itself, as Hector, Prince of Troy, cuts a bloody swathe through the Argives who oppose him. Those eager to claim their ground for the whole performance were spreading out mats, blankets and baskets. I saw several poets I recognised standing by the wine carts talking to friends and admirers. I was relieved to see Thallos among them. So he hadn’t overestimated his powers of recuperation when he’d promised me he’d be here to perform, though I could see his blackened eyes from this distance.
Bruises aside, I realised it was easy to tell the epic poets who’d performed yesterday from those who still had to display their talents. Those who’d already given their all were much more relaxed, with far wider smiles. Those whose allotted episodes lay ahead had a noticeable tension in their stance, and their smiles didn’t reach their eyes.
I was tempted to go over and start asking questions. No, that would involve repeated explanations before I learned what I needed to find out. Melesias Philaid should know, and he could tell me far quicker. If I could only work out how to reach him.
He showed no signs of leaving the platform, and two men muscled like pankratiasts stood at the bottom of the steps leading up there. They stood shoulder to shoulder, warning off anyone who strayed too near, with scowls like statues of Heracles at his most humourless. I didn’t recognise either of them, but whether they were public slaves, or they belonged to Melesias or Aristarchos, they would have been warned of the threat to the poets.
Since I didn’t know them, they wouldn’t know me. They would hardly risk a flogging or worse by letting me pass on my word alone. I looked around for someone who could vouch for me. To my relief, I saw Ambrakis standing on the edge of the assembly area, surveying the latest arrivals. He was close by an optimistic sausage-seller who was lighting the charcoal in his brazier with some embers he’d brought in a hollow fennel stalk.
I hurried over and waved to get the slave’s attention. Instantly alert, he strode forward to meet me.
I didn’t waste any time, speaking as soon as he was close enough to hear me. ‘There’s been another death. I need to talk to Melesias Philaid right now, if we’re to have any chance of stopping more killing.’
Ambrakis nodded, barely breaking his stride as he veered towards the stone platform. I fell into step beside him. The slaves guarding the steps saw us approaching. I guessed they belonged to Aristarchos, because they simply stepped aside at Ambrakis’ nod.
I took the first step and then realised the bodyguard was about to wait down below for me. I turned and jerked my head upwards. ‘Come on. Your master needs to hear this.’
As Ambrakis followed, Melesias saw me coming. I saw the instant of misery on his face, before he got himself in hand. A moment later, he made his excuses to his companions with a blandly smiling face. His gesture told me to stay where I was, and I did as I was bidden. There wasn’t a great deal of space on the platform, but we might as well do what we could to avoid being overheard. Thankfully the hum of conversation below us wasn’t so very loud. I could keep my voice low as the three of us stood with our heads close together. The noble Philaid was far too concerned to stand on his dignity and insist Ambrakis kept his distance.
‘There has been another death. Not any of this year’s poets,’ I said quickly as Melesias’ face turned ashen. ‘But he was a man who competed at the last Great Panathenaia. Polymnestos Anytou. Did the others who’ve already been attacked take part in that contest as well? Daimachos, Hermaios and Thallos?’
Melesias barely needed a moment to run through the previous competition’s roster in his memory. I’d been right to come to him. As a devotee, he’d be able to recall those details.
‘Yes, they did. Why do you ask?’
‘Because I don’t think this woman the killer is seeking ran away a few days ago. That’s why no one can point the finger at her seducer. No one’s lying. We’re simply asking the wrong question. I think she took advantage of the last Great Panathenaia to run away. Think how much easier she would have found it to flee during the festival with the city full of strangers. No one would think twice about her leaving the house to join the rites, as the city’s women celebrate presenting Athena’s statue with her new dress.’
There are times when you’re writing a play, when a whole host of good ideas besieges you. You know in your bones this comedy will make an audience laugh so hard they’ll be left breathless. What you cannot see, what you cannot contrive, is the best way to fit these ideas together. You have to get these characters into a situation so that someone’s action leads to a consequence that’s both hilariously unexpected, and yet satisfying for the audience. There has to be a thread that leads onlookers through the labyrinth of misdirection and jokes at the expense of public figures that
