‘Please.’ He gestured to a stool.
I told him what we’d learned as quickly as I could. Ikesios sat silent by my side, eager as a well-trained pup. Ambrakis stood in the shade, as impassive as ever. Lydis stood beside his master’s chair, dark eyes fixed on my face as he committed every detail to memory. When I relayed the crucial information that Glykera had discovered, Aristarchos reached for a sheet of unsullied papyrus, pen and ink.
‘Damianos Sethou, and he’s a resident of Koele, though that may not be the family’s voting district?’ He glanced at me to confirm he had those details correct.
‘That’s right.’ I waited for him to finish his letter. ‘As soon as we know where he lives…’
I realised I wasn’t sure what our next steps might be.
Ikesios couldn’t restrain himself any longer. ‘We confront him.’
‘With what?’ Aristarchos looked at Lydis and handed him the tightly rolled letter. ‘Take this to the Hippothontis treasurer, with my compliments, and my request that he give it his immediate attention.’
As the lithe slave departed, I nodded my understanding. The Koele district is affiliated to the voting tribe named to honour Hippothoon, the ancient king of Eleusis. The tribe’s treasurer would definitely know where Damianos owed his allegiance and his taxes and, most likely, where to find him to collect any money due, whoever it might be owed to. If he didn’t, he would certainly know which district brotherhood official to ask. Now we had to hope that Lydis could track down whoever it was. That wasn’t necessarily going to be easy with the festival suspending routine business.
Aristarchos returned his attention to Ikesios. ‘We need some proof that he committed these crimes.’
‘We have Thallos.’ Ikesios couldn’t see an issue.
‘Who can swear this man attacked him, but that’s no proof that he killed Daimachos, Hermaios or Polymnestos.’ Aristarchos looked steadily at the youth. ‘We must tie him to those murders with something we can take to Hermaios’ and Polymnestos’ families. Once they decide who’s going to declare their intent to prosecute Damianos, they must have enough evidence or an argument that will satisfy the Ruling Archon there’s a case for him to answer. We will work with them to lay everything that we know and suspect before the Areopagus Court, but the more we can put in our side of the scales, the better.’
Ikesios looked at him aghast. ‘That will take months.’
For the first time that day, grief for his lover filled the youth’s eyes with tears. I sympathised, but Aristarchos was right. To be certain that true justice is delivered, we Athenians prefer not to rush things.
Once the prosecution had been proclaimed with a notice displayed in the agora, the Ruling Archon would hold three successive hearings, each one a month apart, to review what evidence the accused and the aggrieved intended to present on the day of the trial. Once the magistrate was convinced this was a valid prosecution, not some personal attack, a day would be fixed for a jury to be rounded up to hear each side’s arguments. With the best will in the world, it would be winter before Damianos answered for these killings with his own life. Assuming he didn’t flee the city first. That was a distinct possibility, and the thought of this murderer evading justice revolted me.
Aristarchos smiled briefly. ‘The days are long gone when avenging a murder was a matter of riding out in your chariot to challenge your enemy to a duel.’
I had other concerns. ‘How many of the poets will be here for the trial, do you suppose?’
By the time a date for the court to sit was fixed, the rural winter festivals could well have begun. Those celebrations would draw those performers who were Athenian citizens out into Attica. They would be heading to towns and villages ready to pay for some thrilling entertainment to warm up the cold days. The epic poets from further afield could be travelling to any one of countless Hellenic cities, looking forward to being wined and dined in return for performing the favourite local tales of high heroics.
‘Thallos will be here. He’s an Athenian. He will do what’s right.’ But a tremor betrayed Ikesios’ uncertainty.
‘He might be our only witness,’ Aristarchos observed.
I saw his point. If we didn’t have an array of compelling testimonies as successive performers convinced the jury of the fear that had stalked them, the trial would essentially come down to Thallos’ word against the killer’s.
I remembered the battered poet’s concern for his reputation. How would he react if Damianos told the presiding magistrate that he had some grievance against him? What if Damianos accused Thallos of seducing his sister? Without Posideos to say different, there was no way to prove he was innocent of that crime.
I couldn’t see any hope of us finding the runaways, even with Aristarchos’ resources to call on. After four years, the pair could be in any Hellenic city from the distant ocean shore beyond the Pillars of Hercules to the towns that ringed the Euxine Sea. There was no reason to suppose news of Adrasteia’s brother’s trial in Athens would reach them. If, by some divine intervention, they did hear what was going on, and in time to reach Athens for the trial, would they risk returning? That meant exposing themselves to Damianos’ murderous fury, with no guarantee that he’d be convicted and executed. I very much doubted that, after hearing they had fled his anger with little more than the clothes on their backs.
‘We need more evidence. More witnesses who can tie him to these crimes.’ I looked at Aristarchos and thought I saw a hint that he shared at least some of my reservations about seeing justice done.
He nodded. ‘We must see what we can learn from his neighbours, discreetly, once we know where he lives.’
Ikesios rose and bowed politely to Aristarchos. ‘If you will excuse me, I would like to go to the Pnyx to see the Iliad’s performance concluded.’
Aristarchos smiled. ‘By
