‘By the altar to the twelve gods in the agora?’ Lysicrates suggested. ‘That’s where I’m meeting Menekles and Apollonides before we go up to the Acropolis for the night’s festivities.’
I nodded ready agreement. ‘That’s as good a place as any.’
‘We won’t go up to the celebrations without you,’ Lysicrates assured the young poet.
He grinned. ‘Thanks.’
‘Thank you.’ I shared my gratitude between the old man and Pherenike, who had come out into the house’s porch. ‘We’ll keep you informed of whatever transpires.’
Lysicrates and I left before we could get caught up in any more conversation. Outside in the street, the Scythians and Ambrakis were watching as Alkimos went into Damianos’ house.
Kallinos walked over to talk to us. ‘I’ll stay here to keep watch for the moment, but can you please leave word at the prison? Tell them I want a couple of men sent here to take my place?’
Once again that was much closer to an order than a request. Once again, I nodded. ‘Of course.’
Lysicrates and I began walking, with Ambrakis bringing up the rear. I checked the sun and saw time was passing unhelpfully fast. I tried to force our pace on, but that was none too easy. Citizens and visitors alike were heading for the agora, to secure a good view of the torch race. I could hardly blame them. It is a tremendous spectacle.
As the city prison came into sight, I turned to Lysicrates and pointed. ‘Will you deliver Kallinos’ message to whoever’s on duty, and give them directions to Damianos’ house? That doesn’t need two of us, and I really want to see Aristarchos if I possibly can.’
He nodded. ‘Go ahead. We’ll see you by the altar.’
I hurried onwards. The agora was crowded. Men with that indefinable air of self-importance that marks out district brotherhood officials were walking up and down the Panathenaic Way, to keep spectators from getting too close. The torches would pass from hand to hand as the competitors were entering the agora. Ten fresh runners would be poised every sixty strides, ready to receive one of the sacred flames for the next stretch of the race. The last thing anyone wanted was someone stumbling into a sprinter’s path.
I managed to dash across the broad roadway with only a couple of scorching glares by way of rebuke. I headed for Aristarchos’ house, but now I was going against the flow of people. As I dodged and sidestepped, I got more filthy looks from would-be spectators than I’d had from the race stewards.
I might as well have saved myself the effort. When I got there, Mus slid open the grille and shook his head. ‘The master’s entertaining in his private dining room, and no one else is receiving visitors.’
‘Oh.’ I was unsure what to do. The only thing I knew for certain was there was no point in arguing with Mus.
‘Have a good night.’ He closed the grille.
Oh well. My latest discoveries would have to wait. It wasn’t as if these details would be painted on the white board that would be hung up for all to see when Damianos was formally accused. Those blood-red letters would simply warn him to keep away from temples and public ceremonies as well as the law courts and public meetings, to avoid polluting the well-being of our democracy with his guilt. Everyone would know what that meant though. He was accused of murder.
I might as well join my friends for the night’s festivities. I headed back to join the crowds in the agora. The altar to the twelve gods is on the other side of the Panathenaic Way, and there was no chance of getting over there so close to the start of the race, but that didn’t concern me. The torch race is a great and sacred spectacle, with each tribe’s finest sprinters giving their utmost to honour the gods and their fellow citizens. That means it’s over more quickly than any other contest. I could wait for the last torches to go past, when everyone headed for the Acropolis.
Meantime, I worked my way through the throng to a point opposite the altar, and looked for familiar faces by the entrance to the gods’ enclosure. I soon realised that was impossible now that the daylight had gone. There were no lights burning to rival the sacred flames as they passed by.
All around me, heads turned as we heard the roar of the race approaching. The noise ebbed and surged like waves crashing on to a beach. There was no way to know what those cries of exultation and alarm might mean. Had one racer outstripped his rivals? Had a promising lead been lost as passing the torch from hand to hand was fumbled? Had a flame flickered and guttered, only to recover its strength? Had a torch died to leave a trail of bitter smoke choking a team along with all their supporters’ hopes? Had a runner tripped and fallen, weighing down his entire tribe with that appalling omen?
The eager onlookers at the entrance to the agora raised a deafening cry. I saw the first glow of the approaching torches. Gasps and cheers told us when the next handover began. The first runners came into view. The leader had to judge his speed against the risks of extinguishing his flame, and I didn’t envy him. I could see the strain on his face as he held the torch at arm’s-length, with the flame streaming back towards him. The light gilded the sweat glistening in his hair and on his naked chest.
