‘Good day to you both.’ Ikesios departed. If he didn’t leave as fast as Lydis, there was just as much purpose in his stride.
Aristarchos waited until we heard Mus open the gate to the street. He looked at me. ‘Please go and make sure he doesn’t do something stupid. I understand his frustration, but the law is the law.’
‘Of course.’ I’d seen the same rebellious glint in Ikesios’ eyes. Possibly because I shared the youth’s irritation.
Aristarchos nodded. ‘I’ll send Lydis to find you up there as soon as we get any answer to my letter.’
‘He can bring back word of anything you need to know.’ I went on my way.
Even walking quickly, I wasn’t fast enough to catch up with Ikesios. Either that or he had taken another route to avoid the roaring crowds in the agora. I could hear the rivalry for places in the finals of the men’s foot races was intense. That’s one undeniable advantage athletic contests have over drama, epic performance or musical competitions. The first one over the line, or the one who’s chucked a discus or javelin furthest, is indisputably the winner.
I took a street that joined the Panathenaic Way as it cuts between the Areopagus and the Acropolis. A short distance down the road, I headed up a path to the Pnyx. There were a fair few people strolling up the hill, ready to enjoy the final day of battles and tragedies before the Argives and the Trojans find some measure of common ground in their grief. Homer understood the true price of warfare, and he is honoured at the Great Panathenaia for that, especially by those of us who’ve marched into battle.
I made my way to the assembly area, and walked along the edge of the crowd. To my relief, I soon spotted Menkaure and Hyanthidas. Together with Telesilla and Zosime, they were sitting away to one side. They might not have the best view of the speaker’s platform, but they were where they knew they would be easily seen. As I went over to join them, I was pleased to see the Corinthians had brought some blankets to sit on.
Zosime held out a hand as I approached. I sat down behind her, sliding my legs around her hips. I slid my hands around her waist and rested my chin on her shoulder as she leaned back against me. The day’s performance hadn’t long begun, and the poet up on the stone platform was giving us a powerful rendition of Odysseus brokering the reconciliation between Agamemnon and Achilles.
Zosime twisted slightly so she could brush my cheek with her lips. ‘Where’s Ikesios?’
‘Here, I hope. He came on ahead of me.’ I looked around.
When I saw the youth, my heart sank. He wasn’t sitting down to relish the entertainment. He was standing with a knot of other poets, and they were intent on their conversation. Judging by Ikesios’ gestures, and the sour looks they were getting from the audience close by, some heated debate was under way.
‘He’s none too pleased at the prospect of waiting for the law to take its course to the Areopagus Court.’ As far as I could see, nor were the other poets. There were far too many grimly nodding heads for my peace of mind.
‘I can hardly blame him,’ I said heavily. ‘If Damianos takes himself off into exile rather than face his accusers, all of Athens will know he’s guilty, but that’s a meagre measure of justice.’
The Furies had been so determined that I should pursue this killer. I tried to tell myself that they wouldn’t let him slink away.
Hyanthidas was sitting with his arm around Telesilla. He followed my gaze, and frowned. ‘The boy knows the killer’s name, but not where he lives? There’s a limit to the mischief he can make with that, isn’t there?’
‘I hope so,’ I said fervently. ‘As long as one of the Athenian poets doesn’t recognise the name, and happens to know where to find Damianos.’
The day went on. Events before the gates of Troy so long ago unfolded before us. Eupraxis took to the platform, and the audience sat breathless and motionless as he told of the gods drawing up on either side to intervene in the war. Then Achilles joined the battle and the slaughter began. We know the story, but hearing every detail and every death so vividly described makes it strike home anew every time. Eupraxis’ performance was outstandingly good, full of action and passion as he strode around the platform gesturing with his staff. Half the audience would have awarded him the winner’s garland there and then.
I could see that because I kept dragging my attention away from the compelling recitation to keep an eye on Ikesios. He and the other poets did at least do Eupraxis the courtesy of watching him in respectful silence. I could see uncomplicated admiration on their faces, as well as a few more thoughtful expressions. The likes of Theokritos could see they had a serious rival for glory and prizes.
Achilles swept across the battlefield, as destructive as a forest fire searing a parched mountainside. His horses’ hooves crushed the bones of the dead like grains of barley trodden by broad-browed oxen on the threshing floor. Red-handed, he drove his blood-spattered chariot onward. The audience drew a shuddering breath as Eupraxis fell silent, motionless in the centre of the stage.
As a storm of applause erupted, I saw Ikesios and his cohort immediately resume their council of war. I got to my feet as people around us started moving to take advantage of the brief pause before the next poet took to the platform. The rest of the audience waited, avid to hear the tale of Achilles’ rampage provoking the river Skamandros to confront him.
‘I need to know what they’re talking about,’ I told Hyanthidas. ‘If you see Lydis, tell him not to tell Ikesios or any of the other poets where Damianos lives.’
Not that I imagined
