By the time I got back, the assembly area was a very different place now that the Iliad was done. Families and respectable citizens had gone home, though there were still plenty of people about. The wine-sellers were doing a brisk trade and threads of smoke in the air were fragrant with the aroma of little fish being cooked over braziers. Other enterprising vendors had brought their handcarts up here to sell off the last of the day’s bread and pastries, cheese and olives. I bought myself some food and found a quiet spot to stand and eat while I surveyed the scene.
Groups of men and women were lounging on blankets spread out on the ground in loose circles around golden-flamed lamps. Most were laughing and talking as they shared jugs of wine, but here and there, couples got up and took their blankets in search of deeper shadows and more privacy. Girls and women in gauzy draped dresses that did little to conceal their charms strolled from group to group, looking for an invitation from someone willing to pay for their company.
Over towards the speaker’s platform, someone was playing a hesitant tune on his double pipes. Somewhere closer at hand, a singer with a lyre sounded far more confident with a bawdy song.
There was no sign of Hyanthidas and Telesilla, or of Menkaure and Zosime. I realised that shouldn’t surprise me. There was no good reason for them to stay here after the end of the performance, and my beloved would have seen the Scythians who were still around the periphery, as well as Aristarchos’ and Melesias’ slaves. You didn’t have to know that Damianos was tucked up in his bed to be confident any trouble here tonight would be ruthlessly quashed.
Perhaps that’s why the poets were in such high spirits, knowing they were safe from the threat that stalked them. I also recognised the relief that follows a performance. Win or lose, that work is done with. It’s time to relax for at least a little while before starting to wonder what’s next.
A quick headcount satisfied me that all this year’s performers were here. They were the only ones still wearing cloaks in the summer night’s heat, even if the red hue wasn’t clear in the gloom. Some were sitting in twos or threes while others, like Theokritos, were graciously accepting congratulations alone, unwilling to share such admiration.
The poets were ringed by their devotees. From time to time, someone would stand up to declaim a snatch of Homer’s words, or a short passage from some other epic. Those sitting close by would break off their conversations to listen and applaud with the polite concentration of the mildly drunk.
I spotted Ikesios sitting with Eupraxis amid a cluster of muscular young men. As I drew close, I saw several newcomers had bruised faces and grazed knees or elbows. One pentathlete was explaining his regretfully unsuccessful strategy in the wrestling at the Lyceum. Eupraxis saw me coming and nudged Ikesios. The two of them came to meet me.
‘I wondered where you’d got to.’ Ikesios greeted me cheerily, but his high spirits hadn’t come out of a jug. He was still excited about his plan to trap Damianos. ‘We’ve talked to everyone now. They agree this is the surest way to get justice for our friends.’
I nodded and that surprised him. ‘I’ve been thinking about it too. I should be the one to play Posideos.’
I was about to explain that I knew what the killer looked like now, so he couldn’t take me by surprise, but Ikesios and Eupraxis were both still talking.
‘I’m sorry, but if you think he might recognise one of us, the same is surely true for you.’ Eupraxis shook his head. ‘You spend your days in the agora looking for business, and you’ve presented how many choruses in the theatre for the Lenaia and the Dionysia? Even if he doesn’t know your name, there’s a chance your face will seem familiar. If someone else tells him who you are, our efforts to net him will be wasted.’
‘You’re a fine writer, Philocles, and I know you have valuable experience in theatre choruses, but you can’t pretend to be an epic performer. But that’s not a problem.’ Ikesios grinned. ‘We have the ideal man for the role.’
He gestured towards the men they had just left. One saw him wave. The man stood up and waved back, before sitting down to resume his conversation. Even in the poor light, I recognised Apollonides.
However vehemently I wanted to object, I could instantly see the arguments I’d get thrown back at me. Apollonides had once thought of a career as a performance poet, so he could play the part convincingly. No one would know his face. While he was always in demand among Athens’ comic playwrights, he wasn’t a leading actor like Menekles, whose height and commanding presence made him recognisable with or without a mask. He wasn’t a specialist like Lysicrates, whose ability to mimic women from nubile nymphs to withered crones left audiences intrigued to know what he really looked like. Apollonides was a versatile actor who could take on a play’s second or third speaking role and disappear into that character completely.
He was also a genius at physical comedy. He could jump, fall headlong, or swing from the stage crane as deftly as any acrobat. To do that, he kept extremely fit with regular training at the same gymnasium as me. So he was fit enough to hold his own against Damianos, and I knew the reflexes he’d honed in his hoplite days were still razor sharp. He wouldn’t be caught unawares, even if he didn’t know what this killer looked like.
I nodded reluctantly. ‘Okay then. Where are you meeting tomorrow, and when, for your expedition to Koele?’
Eupraxis and Ikesios exchanged a glance that told me they’d definitely expected me to object to
