‘No idea, mate,’ the actor said cheerily. ‘I’m not even the man you’re looking for. We played you like a one-string lyre.’
There was a moment’s absolute stillness as Damianos stared at him in disbelief. Everyone else who was watching wondered by all the gods what was going on. I could hear the choruses singing and dancing over on the far side of these shrines.
Then Apollonides’ goad had its intended effect. Damianos charged at the actor with a roar of incoherent fury. Apollonides waited in a boxer’s crouch, braced to fight back. At the very last moment, and with perfect timing, he turned sideways on to his attacker and dropped to his hands and knees.
Damianos couldn’t stop himself. His shins collided with Apollonides’ ribs. Now the killer’s height and heft turned against him. He toppled forward, unable to save himself. He thrust out his hands instinctively to stop his face hitting the ground. His palms slapped the marble paving and everyone heard the dull crack of snapping bone.
As the onlookers gasped, I remembered Apollonides telling me about one of his very first lessons from an acrobat, when he learned that trick for the stage. Learn to roll and suffer a few bruises instead of breaking both your wrists.
Menekles and Lysicrates were there to pin Damianos face down on the ground as Apollonides scrambled away. There was no fight left in the killer now. He lay limp and whimpering with pain. I noticed the fine quality of his expensive new sandals and wondered where he had hidden the ones stained with Daimachos’ blood.
I looked around for the poets. Eupraxis was sitting against the wall, hugging what looked like a couple of cracked ribs. He was alert enough for me not to worry. Ikesios was standing breathing heavily with a hand pressed to his midriff. He must have bitten a lip or his tongue as his chin was smeared with blood.
‘Are you fit to go and get the Scythians?’ I asked.
He nodded, and I watched him go. The crowd parted to let the youth through. Countless faces were alight with curiosity. Well, I wasn’t about to start offering any explanations. They could hear all the details at Damianos’ trial.
Then a hand tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to find myself looking at a stern-faced priest. I realised I would be explaining myself to the servants of more than one god and goddess before this night was over.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Hyanthidas didn’t win a prize, but that didn’t seem to dent his enjoyment of his trip to compete at the Great Panathenaia. Zosime and I were sorry to see him and Telesilla leave a few days after the victors were announced, but they had no reason to stay in Athens once they had chosen a souvenir amphora from the selection in the pottery where Menkaure worked.
I didn’t need to hire a musician. I wasn’t called to read for the magistrates choosing the playwrights for the next Dionysia. That was a disappointment, I can’t pretend it wasn’t. The fact that Menekles, Apollonides and Lysicrates were swiftly hired by my rivals wasn’t much consolation.
On the other hand, I was kept more than busy enough. By the time summer was over and autumn turned towards winter, winged Rumour had carried word of the festival night’s dramatic events around the agora and beyond. People who wanted an excuse to sit and hear what had really happened up on the Acropolis mostly had the courtesy to bring me some task and to pay for the privilege.
Hermaios Metrobiou’s brother enlisted me to prepare his submissions for the Ruling Archon once his intent to prosecute Damianos for murder was declared. I wrote the speech he delivered when the case came before the Areopagus Court, as well as helping several members of Polymnestos’ family polish their testimony. I was paid handsomely, though between you, me and Hermes, I’d have done the work for free, to be certain the bastard was convicted.
Aristarchos sent his son Hipparchos to sit beside me as I worked on these tasks, to watch and learn. The young noble hadn’t won a prize either, but it seemed surviving the hoplite and chariot race was victory enough for him. I was relieved for Aristarchos’ sake that he had come through unscathed.
Ikesios, Eupraxis and several other poets made sure they were in Athens for the day of the trial. Unsurprisingly, they needed no one’s help to make their testimony as compelling as anything Homer had ever composed. I was still astonished another poet had won the Iliad contest after hearing Eupraxis, but I hadn’t been there for that triumphant performance so I had to accept the judges knew what they were doing.
The Areopagus Court was crowded as Damianos spoke in his own defence. He defied us to produce a witness who had seen Daimachos killed, or to tell the court where Hermaios had been tortured. That was something we’d been unable to discover. We could only guess that a man with Damianos’ business interests across the city must have known of some suitable workshop or storeroom, deserted for the festival.
Spitting a torrent of venom and lies, he denied everything apart from the attacks on Thallos and Apollonides. He claimed they were conspiring to hide his sister from him. He insisted he had every right to force them to tell him where she was. However badly he’d shattered his wrists, his arrogance remained unbroken even after he’d been imprisoned to make sure he didn’t flee. The Acropolis priests had insisted he was held to face the city’s wrath after he had profaned the night vigil of the Great Panathenaia.
That didn’t save the bastard. No one believed the poet or the actor had ever even spoken to his sister. Damianos was rightly condemned before sunset and the Scythians took him away to face death the next day. I heard from Kallinos later that he couldn’t find a single relative, friend, or
