Ikesios grinned. ‘I wonder how he explains you and Theokritos being asked to step into the breach.’
‘He’ll have some explanation that flatters him. He always does.’ Eupraxis exhaled with wordless disdain.
I studied Soterides. So now I knew he was arrogant, and I could see how that would count against him with Melesias. As far as the Philaid commissioner was concerned, this festival performance was an offering to glorify Athena, not an opportunity for any individual poet to be adored, not even the winner.
But what Melesias thought might well be completely irrelevant. Soterides wasn’t just impressively dressed. He had the air of a man who expects admiring gazes to linger on him. I’d say he drew plenty of female eyes. I remembered what my mother had said. The woman this killer was hunting could have been desperate for a saviour, for some way to escape a husband capable of the violence we had seen these past few days. That didn’t mean the man she had believed was her hero would necessarily have a character as noble as his appearance.
‘What episode did he perform, at the last Great Panathenaia?’
‘Hera’s seduction of Zeus.’ Eupraxis snorted. ‘He gives that an airing at every opportunity. His own version for private drinking parties includes details Homer never thought of, and would make a satyr blush, so I hear.’ He broke off and looked at me. ‘He’s certainly one of the poets we see with a different woman on his arm in each town.’
‘How successful is he? In terms of earning silver,’ I clarified hastily.
‘Oh, he makes a very good living,’ Eupraxis conceded with the barest hint of jealousy. ‘Nothing but the best for him. I suppose he earns it. He really is very skilled. He always draws a large crowd and his private patrons are most generous, by all accounts.’
So the man was handsome and persuasive. More than persuasive by the sound of it. I’d guess Soterides was as well-practised at seduction in real life as he was at giving a performance. It also seemed he had the funds to support a lover hidden far away out in Trikorynthos, if that’s what he wanted to do.
That need not stop him sampling other delights as he travelled from festival to festival. It wasn’t as if this girl could go home if she’d discovered her hero was as unworthy as Paris of Troy. She was no Helen, to be welcomed back and forgiven by Menelaus, to be found sitting demurely with her wool basket and spindle when Telemachos turned up in Sparta wondering where his father Odysseus could possibly have got to. She couldn’t go back, either to the husband she’d abandoned or to her father’s home. Her disgrace was as permanent as it was complete.
I felt a chill as I realised something else. Eupraxis had said Soterides was arrogant. He might be arrogant enough to bring his soiled Helen to Athens for the festival, to ensure he had a compliant bedmate at his beck and call. If he thought no one would still be bothered about his complaints about the last Homeric contest, he might equally assume that her abandoned husband had given up on his loss after four years.
I looked at Ambrakis. ‘Tell Lydis everything, but tell him to find out what he can about Soterides first. And if I might ask a favour, can a message be sent to—’ I realised there was no point in sending word to my own house in Alopeke, since Kadous wouldn’t be there. ‘Ask Lydis to write a note and take it to Hyanthidas of Corinth’s lodging, to explain what I’m doing.’
I gave the big bodyguard directions to the house where the Corinthian musicians were staying. As soon as they knew what was going on, hopefully so would Zosime. I spared a moment to envy the great and the good who could afford to have a slave in constant attendance with nothing to do but carry their messages.
Ambrakis looked at me, dubious. ‘If this Soterides is the man this killer is hunting, you may well cross his path. The master won’t like the idea of you challenging this murderer on your own.’
I was startled to hear him speak for Aristarchos. I also couldn’t argue with what he said. I wasn’t keen on the idea of facing this killer by myself.
Ikesios spoke up. ‘I’ll be with Philocles. I owe that much to Hermaios’ memory and to his family.’
His voice was determined, but I saw the sheen of tears as he blinked.
‘Thank you.’ I meant it. I was also glad to think I’d have an Athenian citizen with me, to confirm whatever we discovered.
‘Should we warn Soterides?’ Eupraxis wondered aloud.
‘He has to have heard what’s going on, surely?’ Ikesios shrugged. ‘That should be all the warning a man with his wits about him would need.’
‘Unless he has no reason to think this is anything to do with him,’ I said slowly. ‘What do most of you know about what’s going on? That Daimachos and Hermaios have been killed, at different times and in different places, in very different ways. That the Scythians and I have been asking endless questions, but all we’ve established so far is every other poet is surely innocent of these crimes. Thallos may have been attacked, but he’s insisting that was a street thief after his silver, for the moment at least. As for Polymnestos, no one outside his family and immediate friends will even know that he’s dead yet.’
I shook my head as something else occurred to me. ‘Besides, if Soterides is the
