Now we were keeping pace with Damianos, but as the crowds grew ever more tightly packed, I couldn’t see how we were going to gain on him. We were getting close to the agora and he could go anywhere from there. As I realised we were going to pass the city’s prison, I recognised the piercing whistles from Kallinos or some other Scythian. I had no idea what they meant, but it was a safe guess they were trying to raise the alarm, hoping to summon reinforcements.
It was no good. The noise from the agora was deafening. I heard brass trumpets and rhythmic cheers off in the distance as well as closer at hand. My heart sank as I realised why Damianos had fled this way when he could have run down far less crowded streets on the other side of the Pnyx. The bastard had remembered the parade of masculine excellence.
The warrior dance contest takes place in the theatre, but once that competition is over and done with, each voting tribe presents the most admirable citizens it can muster for the day’s festival procession along the Panathenaic Way. These men aren’t merely selected from the tallest and most vigorous of each district. They must be as handsome and as evenly muscled as the finest works of sculpture. They can’t simply be impressive to look at, however enthusiastically the crowds applaud their naked and oiled physiques. Between laying offerings at the statues of Harmodios and Aristogeiton, and going on to the rites to be celebrated at the Acropolis, the men of each contingent pause in the agora to demonstrate their strength and poise before the contest judges.
The winning tribe will feast on an ox, and the victorious contestants are each awarded a finely crafted shield. It’s a great honour to win, and my brothers and I have always felt justly proud when our tribe of Antiochis has triumphed. Not that there’s ever been any question of us taking part. We’ve always had to work for a living, not spend endless days at the Lyceum to hone our bodies for such display.
I have no idea which voting tribe’s finest were currently passing through the marketplace. I could barely force my way onwards. People were standing shoulder to shoulder, as tightly packed as salted fish in a barrel. More were crowding onto plinths and monuments to get a better view. There was no hope of tracing Damianos’ path by following a disturbance through the crowd. Everyone was jostling and moving. Those eager to see their sons, friends and neighbours’ moment of glory were elbowing people aside. Those who had already proudly cheered on their tribe’s representatives were obligingly edging backwards.
I couldn’t see anyone I knew, friend or foe. I swore foully enough to turn shocked faces towards me. Amid this tumult, Damianos had escaped us.
Chapter Twenty-One
Failing to capture Damianos had always been a possibility. We had prayed to great Athena and to the Furies to avert such a misfortune. The dread goddesses must have decided otherwise for some unknowable reason. That didn’t mean I had to like it. My blood boiled as I stood and swore so foully my father would have thrashed me if he’d heard. If there’d been a jug handy I’d have smashed it and stamped on the shards for good measure.
As I ran out of breath, my fury faded enough to let me think straight. Standing there cursing our misfortune wouldn’t help anyone. I unclenched my fists and backed out of the crowds. Only a fool goes into any sort of fight without agreeing a rally point to head for if the outcome goes against you. I took a circuitous route to Aristarchos’ house, threading my way through a labyrinth of backstreets. I didn’t need to tell Mus we had failed. He looked as grim as I felt as he opened the gate.
‘The Scythian is here with my master. Please, go through.’
I saw that he meant Kallinos as I went into the inner courtyard. The public slave looked over as my footsteps echoed in the archway. I realised the whole house was quiet. Aristarchos’ family and guests must be at some festival entertainment elsewhere.
‘Lysicrates?’ Though it was obvious Kallinos wasn’t holding out much hope that the actor was still on Damianos’ trail.
‘I haven’t seen him.’ I looked at Aristarchos. ‘Has Ambrakis sent word?’
He shook his head as he gestured for me to sit. ‘Tell me what happened.’
It took me a moment to get my thoughts into order. Lydis was sitting at a small table with papyrus, pen and ink. I made sure to speak slowly and clearly so the slave could take down my full account. That much could go to the Ruling Archon to support the accusations that must surely be made by Hermaios and Polymnestos’ families now that we could swear to the attack on Apollonides.
I was nearly done when we heard the outer gate open. I recognised Lysicrates’ voice and heard Ambrakis talking to Mus. They came through to join us. The big slave looked distraught.
‘You are not at fault,’ Aristarchos said firmly before the man could speak. ‘Simply tell me what happened.’
Unfortunately, their accounts didn’t add anything we didn’t already know. Fortunately, it didn’t take long to establish that. Better yet, before Ambrakis finished speaking, Apollonides and Menekles arrived with Ikesios. Menekles was walking stiffly with a distinctly pained expression, but Apollonides didn’t seem too much the worse for wear.
The young poet’s face fell as they arrived in the inner courtyard and he saw our dour expressions. ‘He got away?’
‘Into the crowds in the agora.’
Before I could explain any further, Ikesios looked at Aristarchos.
‘What do we do now?’
His tone came perilously close to lacking the respect that a youth his age should show for a man who was so much his senior in age and status. Aristarchos
