‘Wait.’ I put a hand on Ikesios’ arm. Lysicrates waited by my side until Damianos started moving again.
As soon as the killer started walking, I relaxed my hold on the youth. We walked to the fountain. As I took a drink myself, I watched Damianos head up the slope. He was taking longer strides now. I looked towards the gateway that offered admittance to the sacred rock’s long, wide summit. A sizeable contingent of Scythians was drawn up on either side. They were standing at their ease for the moment, but everyone knew they wouldn’t hesitate to quell the first sign of trouble.
I watched Apollonides and Eupraxis pass between them and head onwards through the monumental gate. As the actor and the poet vanished from sight, I looked back down the slope to pick out Damianos. For a few heart-stopping moments I couldn’t see him, then I caught sight of a tall figure, hurrying faster than everybody else. He slowed as he approached the gate, careful not to attract undue attention from the Scythians.
I turned to Lysicrates and Ikesios. ‘Come on.’
The three of us were enough to make an arrowhead with Lysicrates on my left and Ikesios to my right. Ignoring muttered indignation and louder objections, we sliced a path through the crowd, reached the turn and headed on up the slope.
As we approached the gate, I scanned the ranks of the Scythians for a familiar face. I couldn’t see anyone I recognised, but there was no point in cursing that bad luck. The armoured slaves were watching our approach with interest. As soon as we reached them, I headed for the most experienced-looking man. He had ferocious eyebrows and a face as rough and creased as the old leather of his cuirass.
‘My name is Philocles Hestaiou—’
‘I know who you are. I’ve taken my turn standing guard up on the Pnyx these past few days.’ He looked at me, expectant.
‘The man we suspect of murder has just gone through the gate. As long as you don’t let him leave, we should be able to catch him. His name is Damianos Sethou. He’s tall and wearing a dark brown tunic—’
I broke off. We still had the same problem that we’d had on the Pnyx. Only a handful of us would recognise the bastard. He could easily get back out past these Scythians by mingling with the crowd.
The leather-faced slave grinned. He turned to look up the slope. The paved way ran straight ahead, passing between the monumental pillars of the gateway. The Scythian gave one of those ear-splitting, fluting whistles. Then he bellowed so loudly that almighty Zeus must have wondered who’d borrowed his thunder.
‘Damianos Sethou!’
The wily Scythian’s trick worked. The killer stopped dead for a moment and looked over his shoulder, unable to hide his shock at hearing his name. Everyone around him stopped too. Before he could stop himself, Damianos turned right round. He had to know how close his pursuers might be. In that moment I saw him realise every Scythian was staring straight at him. Now they knew what he looked like.
Then he saw me, Lysicrates and Ikesios. I have no idea if he recognised the others, but I could see in his eyes he knew me. He knew I would tell the Scythians what he had done. They wouldn’t let him leave this way.
Damianos turned and fled towards the temples that crown the Acropolis. Ikesios, Lysicrates and I ran after him. Bemused revellers let us pass.
Chapter Twenty-Three
We passed through the monumental gate and took a moment to assess what lay ahead. Right in front of us, the great bronze statue of Athena Promachos gazed out across her city and Attica beyond. Five times as tall as a man, helmeted and wearing her aegis, she holds her spear high. Commemorating her beloved people’s victories in battle, she can be seen by those approaching from land or sea.
Behind the mighty goddess, where her old temple once stood, the ruins left by the Persians have been cleared. Now that broad expanse of ground is overlooked by the new temple being built a little way away to the south. This is where the citizens would gather tomorrow, when the Great Panathenaia’s oxen were sacrificed at Athena’s altar at the far end of the sacred precinct. The sacred flame was already burning on the whitened carved stone.
Choruses of Athenian women were taking their places to honour our goddess for her bountiful gifts and blessings. Just because our wives and daughters don’t compete in public contests, other Hellenes assume they cannot dance or sing. Nothing could be further from the truth and these women would soon prove it, to delight the crowd that already ringed the dancing floor.
‘Where is the bastard?’ Lysicrates was searching for any glimpse of Damianos.
Ikesios was frowning. ‘I can’t see him or the others. They must be somewhere else.’
‘I think so,’ I agreed, and not just because I couldn’t find our friends. There was plenty of light from myriad torches as well as the altar fire at the heart of the Acropolis. Damianos would be an utter fool to launch an attack where everyone else could see him.
‘He does his dirty work in the shadows.’ Lysicrates turned to look southwards, towards the sanctuary that shelters Artemis’ ancient statue. There were torches lit on either side of the steps to the small precinct. We could see mothers accompanied by girls not
