I looked for Lysicrates, Menekles and Ikesios, hoping to see them wrestling Damianos to the ground. ‘Over there.’
I swallowed a curse as I saw them trying to get free of a group of drunk and friendly revellers wanting to draw them into an impromptu dance. There was no one to stop the murderer as he walked briskly past the east-facing entrance to the Erechtheion and disappeared.
‘Where’s he going?’ Eupraxis looked at me for some answer.
I did my best to picture the buildings on that side of the Acropolis, where the rocky ground slopes abruptly down by more than the height of a man. That’s why the Erechtheion is a temple of two different shrines. Up above, our ancient king Erechtheus is honoured with Athena, who raised him from an infant. In return, he has offered her most ancient statue shelter ever since the Persians sacked her old temple. In the other half of the sanctuary below, we remember Erechtheus’ death, struck down by Poseidon’s own trident after our king triumphed in the war between Athens and Eleusis. You can still see the great gouges the god’s weapon left in the rock.
I couldn’t imagine Damianos would try to hide in there. An instant later, I realised what he must be doing. ‘He’s going to try to find a way out onto the north steps.’
Beyond the Erechtheion and the sacred olive tree that Athena gave us when we chose her as our city’s goddess, there’s the house for the maidens who weave the goddess’s new gown each year. Just past that, a hidden gate opens on to steep stairs that lead down the north face of the rock to Aphrodite’s shrine and the fountain below. The Acropolis is Athens’ most ancient fortress and as everyone knows, you never build defences with only one exit.
I grabbed Eupraxis by the shoulder and pointed at Menekles and the others. ‘Go and tell them. Get over there and stop him.’
He ran off and I turned to Lysicrates. ‘We’ll go around the other side of the shrine. Then we should have him trapped.’
‘What about this poor wretch?’ Lysicrates was still kneeling beside the fallen slave.
I was relieved to see Damianos’ latest victim was starting to stir. ‘There must be priests at the Erechtheion. We can tell them to send help.’ I was already moving. Either Lysicrates would follow or he wouldn’t. I wasn’t going to risk any delay that might let Damianos escape.
As I passed the eastern entrance to the temple, the actor caught up with me. People by the lamplit entrance stared at us. I had to believe the lack of commotion meant Damianos hadn’t gone in there. We hurried on and reached the steps that overlooked the space between the temple and the north wall.
‘There!’ Lysicrates pointed to the paved area where Athens’ women honour our goddess and her ancient statue with rites throughout the year.
Damianos must have missed his footing in the uncertain light as he hurried down the steps. He was scrambling up from his hands and knees, leaving a dark smear of blood on the pale stone. He must have fallen hard enough to lose some skin, and I blessed whatever deity had tripped him.
‘Philocles!’
Menekles and the others were heading towards us from the other side of the shrine. They must have trampled on toes and elbowed a good few ribs to arrive fast enough to block Damianos’ escape. I also saw a good few curious people were trailing after them, keen to see what was going on. A glance over my shoulder showed me we had an audience gathering as well. More than an audience. We weren’t the only people standing between this killer and escape now. The gods of the Acropolis had sent us reinforcements.
Damianos could see that he was trapped. Wild-eyed in the fiery light from the torches burning by the temple’s lower entrance, he circled slowly around. I could see he was assessing his options. Surrender clearly wasn’t one of them. He ran towards the great encircling wall and tried to find some hand- or foothold. As he started climbing up to the rampart, horrified gasps and cries rose among the onlookers.
I suddenly realised that he would hurl himself from these heights if he could. I was tempted to let him. His family would be spared the humiliation of his trial and the execution that would follow, as well as the condemnation they would surely share. It seemed hard that his wife and children would be tainted by association. They were as much this bastard’s victims as the men he had killed.
He wasn’t given the chance to decide his own fate. Eupraxis and Ikesios were determined to see justice for their murdered friends. The poets flung themselves at Damianos’ back, grabbing at his thighs and waist. His bloodied fingers only had a tenuous hold and he fell backwards.
He landed on his feet, the bastard. As he staggered, Eupraxis and Ikesios attacked, trying to force him to the ground. Neither poet had the weight or skill to overpower him. Damianos spun round. Ikesios dodged, but Eupraxis was too slow or too blindly dogged as he clung to the killer’s shoulders. Damianos threw himself backwards and crushed the poet against the wall. Eupraxis’ grip loosened and he collapsed to his knees as the murderer strode forward. Ikesios gaped at his fallen friend. That instant of inattention cost him dearly. Damianos punched him hard in the midriff. Ikesios folded up like one of my niece’s rag dolls.
Not that this helped Damianos. Menekles and Apollonides were advancing more slowly, with the wariness of men used to street fighting. If Damianos attacked either one, the other would be behind him with a free hand to attack. If he tried to dart between them, both would be on him like dogs on a rat. A glance in our direction showed him me and Lysicrates coming down the steps with the same intent.
He rounded on
