Damianos didn’t spare the tall actor a second glance as he passed him. Intent, he turned down the alley. As soon as the killer was out of sight, I started running. As soon as he heard my footsteps on the rocky ground, Menekles spun round. He whistled two discordant notes and sprinted towards the latrine path like a man who’d eaten bad mussels.
That two-note whistle meant Menekles had seen Damianos was carrying a knife. None of us were armed. We’d decided we weren’t about to offer the bastard any excuse to claim he was only defending himself. I ran as fast as I could without risking losing my footing. The rocky ground had been polished smooth by countless sandals.
I skidded as I reached the alley entrance and nearly fell on my arse. Grabbing the corner of the wall saved me, and I threw myself down the narrow path. Just before the alley took a sharp bend, I saw Apollonides slumped on the ground. He lay unmoving and huddled under that cursed green cloak.
Menekles was wrestling with Damianos. Each man had a firm hold on the other’s shoulders. Both were trying to get his foe off his feet. They were evenly matched. Damianos was taller and stronger than I had realised.
I realised something else. If the killer was gripping fistfuls of Menekles’ tunic, he couldn’t be holding a knife. I looked around for the fallen blade, ready to use it to subdue Damianos. There were three of us here, Athenian citizens, who could stand witness to him using the weapon first and with murderous intent. At least, I fervently prayed to the Furies that there were still three of us. Apollonides was lying ominously still.
I saw the knife. At least it wasn’t hilt-deep in Apollonides’ guts. It was on the ground just beyond him though, and I couldn’t see if there was blood on the blade. Was my friend dead or dying? I judged my moment and dashed past the struggling men as they slammed into a wall.
Menekles had learned his wrestling as a pentathlete. Damianos fought like a man who preferred the no-holds-barred pankration. Menekles went crashing to the ground. He still managed to take Damianos down with him. In a wrestling match, this would be when each man tried to secure a winning pin or a submission. This was nothing like a fair fight. Damianos kneed Menekles in the balls and scrambled to his feet. He saw me standing over the fallen man in the green cloak. He was a murderer, but he wasn’t a fool. Damianos turned and fled back the way we had come.
As the killer ran out of the alley, I heard Lysicrates bellow. An urgent shout followed. I guessed that was Ambrakis. A piercing Euboean whistle had to mean the Scythians had joined the pursuit. I could spare a moment to check on Apollonides.
I knelt and pulled aside the green cloak, dreading the sight of spreading blood. With a sigh of relief that left me light-headed, I saw Apollonides was blinking and gasping like a fish out of water. I helped him sit up and his breath came a little easier.
‘Win – winded me.’ He grimaced. ‘Said if – if he killed me, she’d have to come back home.’
That was something else we had discussed, recalling the killer’s words to Thallos. There was a distinct chance that Damianos had given up asking questions by the time he’d murdered Polymnestos. So Apollonides was wearing a stiffened linen breastplate under his tunic. It’s the lightest kind of armour, worn by the poorest citizens who are still determined to fight for the city as hoplites rather than be relegated to the ranks of trireme rowers. We’d hoped it wouldn’t be noticeable under a loose tunic and a baggy cloak.
We’d been right to take precautions. Damianos’ thrust had ripped through Apollonides’ clothing and sliced into the top layers of glued linen as the blade’s keen edge had skidded over the actor’s lower ribs. No wonder the blow had knocked the wind out of him.
‘That’s evidence of murderous intent.’ I patted his shoulder, breathless with relief.
Menekles groaned as he lay on the ground with his hands pressed to his groin. ‘Get after the bastard. We’ll bring the knife.’
Apollonides nodded agreement. I left without another word. I soon caught up with the chase. The road that runs through Melite and onwards down towards the agora is a broad route. It was packed with festival-goers who were scattering like quail as hunted and hunters alike barged through them.
Not everyone was running. I saw Dados standing off to one side of the road. His bow was raised with an arrow ready to fly. The Scythians don’t carry those things just for show. Anyone close enough to realise what he was doing was already getting out of his way. As I reached him though, he lowered the weapon and relaxed his hold on the bowstring.
‘Can’t risk it,’ he hissed.
I followed his gaze down the slope, and saw the archer was right. The chances were simply too great of someone blundering unawares into his arrow’s path. Aim even a hair’s breadth too high to avoid that danger and the hazard would be skewering some innocent further ahead down the road.
Still, now I could see Damianos even though he was a fair distance ahead of me. His height made him easier to pick out as he forced a path through the crowd.
Once the slope levelled out I couldn’t see him as easily, but the disturbance he was causing still rippled along the street. As I went after him as fast as I could, I caught glimpses of the others. Hard on Damianos’ heels, Lysicrates was slipping deftly through the throng. I guessed the protests and indignation on either side of me were prompted by Ambrakis and the slaves being less subtle.
Kallinos wasn’t far behind Lysicrates. He was correctly assuming that citizens and visitors alike would clear out of his
