This is what I’d been struggling with for these past few days. I couldn’t come up with any explanation for this eruption of bloody violence that didn’t run straight into a dead end of some contradiction. But now Polymnestos Anytou had been killed. His neighbour had told us about him, and all at once, I’d seen these answers as clearly as Mount Hymettos comes into view when the hot sun burns away early morning mist. I stumbled over my words as I explained.
‘Her husband, or whoever this killer is, he knows or suspects that she ran away with a poet who had been competing in the last Great Panathenaia’s Iliad contest. So he’s pursuing the men who took part last time, not the ones who are performing now. He’s not attacking men wearing red cloaks at random. He’s had four years to learn their names, and to wait until he would see them here in the city again. He’s had four years to plan this, and to brood over the wrong done to him and his family. That’s why he attacked Daimachos so ferociously, and kept on hitting him for so long after he was dead. He couldn’t help himself. Once he started, he couldn’t stop until his fury was spent.’
I shuddered at an unbidden, unwanted memory of the Boeotian’s smashed head. Forcing that away, I went on.
‘Since then, he’s been more careful. He had somewhere in mind where he could take Hermaios and try torture to learn what he knew. But that took too long, and even though he dumped the body near the agora, he must know that no one would mistake that for a death in some drunken brawl. So he’s attacking his targets on the street now, following them until he can catch them unawares and drag them out of sight, with the help of some slave. Maybe more than one slave, after Thallos escaped him. Now he’s gone this far, there’s no going back. He won’t stop until he’s got what he’s searching for.’
As I ran out of breath, I realised Melesias Philaid wasn’t admiring the way I’d unknotted this tangle. He was looking openly sceptical. That was as unexpected as it was unwelcome.
‘At least half the poets competing in any Great Panathenaia are Athenian citizens,’ he objected. ‘Hermaios and Polymnestos lived here in the city. This killer could see for himself that neither of them was sheltering this woman.’
Melesias was right, as far as that went. There had to be some explanation. I just couldn’t think of it at the moment.
‘Can you at least tell me the names of any poets we haven’t already thought of, who we haven’t already spoken to, who performed at the last Great Panathenaia?’ I tried not to sound too desperate.
Melesias hesitated, still looking very dubious. I thought he was going to send me on my way, to insist we needed to guard this year’s performers, along with those who might be called on to step in. To my relief, he nodded.
‘Soterides Philotherou of Trikorynthos, Artemon of Tiryns, Posideos Kalliphonou of Upper Ankyle.’
‘Do you know if any of them are here in the city?’
But Melesias was looking past me, over my shoulder. I turned my head to see the first of the day’s poets making his way up the steps. He was waving to the crowd, his raised arm setting his red cloak billowing. As he walked along the front of the speaker’s platform, he brandished the crook-ended staff in his hand. The crowd’s idle chatter turned to an eager hum. Everyone settled down to enjoy the thrills as Agamemnon and the Argives joined battle with the sons of Priam.
‘You have to go.’ Melesias was watching the judges settle in their seats of honour. He turned his back on me and strode away, nearly as impressive as an epic performer.
Chapter Fourteen
Ambrakis was already on his way down the steps. I had no option but to follow him. The slave was heading off to find somewhere to stand and watch the crowd as he had been ordered, but I was determined to talk to the closest group of poets. I saw Ikesios was with them, along with Eupraxis. He must have had all the rehearsal they felt he needed.
I hadn’t expected to see the youth, but one thing I’ve learned from my own losses is no two people react the same way to a bereavement. Hermaios’ family would have buried him at dawn today, and their home would be thronged with friends and relatives sharing their grief. Perhaps that’s what Ikesios sought to escape, preferring to remember his lover here. Epic poetry and its performance was the passion that had brought them together.
That thought prompted another. Polymnestos’ home would be a house of mourning as well now, with the family’s festival plans thrown into chaos. I had no idea whether he had a wife and children, or who would become head of that household, and I decided not to ask. Yes, I freely admit, that was cowardly of me, but knowing would make no difference. As the rest of the city celebrated around them, that family would be consumed with grief, bearing the burdens of funeral rites.
That made the task before me very straightforward, however difficult it might be to succeed. These killings had to be stopped.
I hurried after Ambrakis and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Come with me. You’ll need to take whatever we learn back to your master.’ If Melesias wouldn’t listen to me, he wouldn’t ignore Aristarchos.
Thankfully the slave was willing to take my orders. We made our way around the edge of the assembly area as the performance began behind us. Ikesios and Eupraxis saw us coming. As I saw the apprehension on their faces, I gestured. Realising I wanted to talk to them, they withdrew as far as
