There was no doubt this was murder. A street robber would subdue his chosen victim with a swift blow to the head from behind. He’d strip the unconscious man of his valuables as quickly as possible and flee. He wouldn’t want to kill. That guaranteed pursuit by the dead man’s family and the Furies, all intent on revenge. A thief might well leave that red cloak – it was far too distinctive to easily sell – but he wouldn’t leave those rings on his victim’s fingers, and I’d bet good silver this dead man still had his purse.
I looked at Kallinos. ‘I take it there are no reports of anyone running away from here drenched in blood?’
He gave me a sardonic look. ‘My men have been asking around, but so far, no. Now, can you help us identify this man or not? Do you think he’s an Athenian or one of the foreigners, at very least?’
I realised the depths of Kallinos’ frustration. As things stood, he didn’t even know if this brutal death was a case for the Polemarch, as the magistrate who had jurisdiction over visitors’ affairs, or for the Ruling Archon, who presided over cases where an Athenian citizen had been murdered. Nothing could be done to find this killer until the Scythians knew who the dead man was, and his family, if he had one, were told. It would be their duty to avenge him.
I looked at the dead man’s hands and glanced at Hyanthidas. ‘Do you remember if the Boeotian was wearing any rings? I think he was about this man’s height and build.’
The Corinthian shook his head helplessly. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t recall one way or the other.’
I looked at Kallinos. ‘I’m not saying this is him, but I suggest he’s the first poet you go looking for, to see if he’s gone missing, and to see if anyone can identify those rings.’
‘I suppose so.’ The Scythian didn’t look too pleased, and I couldn’t blame him. There was nothing more we could do to help though.
‘We’ll be on our way.’ I nodded a farewell. ‘Blessed Athena and the Furies send you good hunting.’
Kallinos grunted. ‘Best get this carrion under cover, lads. Wrap him up in that cloak.’
Hyanthidas and I hurried away, very glad to leave the dead man behind us.
I turned to my friend. ‘That’s that then. Now, shall we show Telesilla something of Athens’ glories before the festival starts?’
Chapter Three
We left Arion making himself useful to the Corinthian householder, and spent a pleasant few hours showing Telesilla the sights. The building programme instigated by Pericles was renewing the city all around us. Up on the Acropolis, the most important work was rebuilding the ancient temples that the Persians had burned when they sacked our city in my grandfather’s day. The magnificent new temple to Athena was still surrounded by wooden scaffolding, but it was easy to see this would be the sacred precinct’s crowning glory. I was really looking forward to seeing it complete with brightly painted statues, with their bronze swords and crowns gleaming in the sun. The craftsmen and their slaves were still hard at work. I could taste stone dust in the air as the ring of chisels rose above the chatter of the crowds.
Athena isn’t the only divine guardian of our city. Homer reminds us that Erechtheus had a shining temple here in Agamemnon’s day. That shrine has endured as the site of our civic sacrifices and as our democracy’s treasury, diligently repaired after the ravages of the Persian invaders. Earth-born Erechtheus and his rites have ties to the mysteries that await the dead, and I commended the murdered poet to his care. I had no doubt that the god and his serpents had seen whatever had happened, and would be seeking vengeance. Erechtheus had founded the annual City Panathenaia to honour Athena. This vile murder hadn’t only defiled the city with blood spilled with such evil intent. The Iliad’s performance at this four-yearly Great Panathenaia is as much a gift to the goddess as it’s an entertainment.
Coming down from the busy heights, we showed Telesilla the theatre of Dionysos, where the musical contests would take place. As we walked across to bow dutifully to the ancient statue on the dancing floor below the stage, she startled me by singing a few lines of a hymn to honour the god. Her rich, mellifluous voice prompted a ripple of applause from someone up in the highest ranks of seats on the hillside. Telesilla smiled and waved to whoever it was.
She turned to Hyanthidas with an encouraging smile. ‘It’s a fine place to make your skills heard.’
I shouldn’t have been surprised that she had a professional interest in the venue. I knew from our visit to Corinth that she was a superb singer in her own right, as well as a talented lyre player. All the same, I hoped she wouldn’t sing anything else. Some busybody or an officious temple slave telling her that wasn’t done by respectable women in Athens would cast a shadow over our day.
‘Are you only entering the unaccompanied twin pipes contest,’ Zosime asked Hyanthidas, ‘or are you playing for a singer as well?’
‘Just competing on my own,’ he told her. ‘We did have a friend, a singer, who was thinking of making the trip, but he decided against it.’
‘A good thing, too,’ Telesilla said judiciously as we walked out of the theatre. ‘He’s talented, but not that experienced.’ Her words were kind rather than critical. ‘He’d find himself thoroughly outclassed here, and that would shred his confidence. I’d rather see him win garlands at a few city festivals before he takes to a panhellenic stage.’
Hyanthidas nodded agreement. ‘We have a few friends taking part in the lyre contests, both as soloists and accompanying themselves as they sing.’
From the keen anticipation on his face, I didn’t think either of our friends would be turning their attention to Homer’s poetry until the musical competitions were over.
We took
