As we watched some slaves expertly skinning a beast, Nymenios nudged me. ‘I’ve been asking around, to see who could supply us with leather if Dexios lets us down.’
‘And?’ I really wished we could leave this until after the festival but I knew Nymenios wouldn’t shut up until he’d had his say.
Nymenios scowled. ‘Pataikos has precious few hides not already spoken for, and none of his finest quality, though we’re welcome to the pick of the rest. He’s having his own troubles getting fresh skins.’
‘Really?’ That got my attention. This was bizarre.
Nymenios nodded. ‘He’s been dealing with the Sanctuary of Castor and Pollux for years now, but the priests said they’d had a better offer for raw hides, and he needed to go elsewhere. He’s negotiating with the Sanctuary of Heracles out at Acharnai.’
‘He can’t find anyone closer?’ Acharnai is as far out of the city as a man can walk and return in a day and still have time to do some brisk business there.
But before we could discuss it further, Aischylos called for our attention. A junior priest was hacking up a sacrifice and, unlike some, he wasn’t keeping the choicest cuts for his own friends and family. We each got solid, meaty chunks of haunch and loin. I decided to take that for a good omen. Dividing a bullock into equal portions is all very well in theory but some shares are definitely more worth having than others.
We carried our spoils back to the theatre, so Chairephanes could carry the meat home to be cooked long and slow into tender succulence for the evening. I took particular care not to get any bloodstains on my smart new tunic. As we arrived, one choir was making way for the next and people were quitting or reclaiming their seats. As Nymenios waved to attract our brother’s attention, insistent fingers plucked at my elbow. Startled, I turned to see Lydis, Aristarchos’s personal slave.
‘My master’s compliments.’ He smiled and handed me a letter. Before I could ask what it was about, he slipped away through the crowd.
‘What’s that?’ Nymenios demanded as I passed him the beef I was carrying.
‘How about you let me read it?’ I cracked the wax seals and found Aristarchos’s neat script, concise and to the point.
I’m told that the Pargasarenes are at a travellers’ hostel owned by Proclus of Miletus in Heliotrope Lane, in Kollytos. The head of their delegation is called Azamis.
As far as I can establish, no one has informed them of their companion’s fate. If you are the first to tell them, make note of how they react. That may tell us something significant.
Don’t delay. Once you have spoken to them, come to my house. Don’t mention my name at their hostel, and be careful where you share your own.
There was no signature. Had Aristarchos heard something to give him cause for concern or was he simply being cautious?
Never mind. I could ask him when I told him how these Pargasarenes took the bad news. After that, I could head for my father’s house and eat sacrificial beef, along with fish and fowl and cakes and whatever other festival dishes Melina’s slaves had prepared, with or without Mother’s help.
I waved the papyrus at Nymenios. ‘I have an errand to run. Tell Zosime I won’t be long.’
Chapter Nine
I left the theatre and headed for the Kollytos district. Thankfully it wasn’t too far, between the agora and the city’s southern Itonian Gate. Once I left the main roads I was familiar with, I began looking for someone I could ask for more detailed directions. That took longer than I expected. These side streets were deserted. Everyone who wasn’t at the theatre was evidently enjoying their leisure with relatives and friends. Here and there I heard snatches of laughter and conversations carried on the breeze.
I quickened my pace, eager to get this done and get back to my own family feast. A few more twists and turns and I saw an elderly man sweeping wilted petals from festival garlands out of a gateway. Most likely he was a slave but it’s never wise to assume, so I greeted him as politely as I would speak to any citizen.
‘Good day to you. I wonder if you could help me. I’m looking for Heliotrope Lane.’
He obliged with a toothless smile. ‘Take the first left down there and then the third on your right. You can’t miss it.’
He wasn’t wrong. Heliotrope plants flourished along both sides of the hard-packed earth, and someone had crowned the Hermes pillar on the corner with a garland of the dark green foliage. Someone, or perhaps the same person, had wound another spray around the pillar’s jutting stone cock.
Gates stood wide on either side of the lane, showing me broad courtyards enclosed by pillared porches. I heard a handful of different languages as I passed by. Travellers and their coin were warmly welcomed here.
A dark-skinned man with Phoenician features was walking towards me. I waved a hand. ‘Good day. Can you tell me where to find Proclus of Miletus’s house?’
Incurious, he barely slowed as he pointed and answered in heavily accented Greek,‘That one.’
‘Thank you.’ The open gate revealed paving crowded with tables and stools. I knocked on the doorpost. ‘Hello within! I’m looking for Azamis of Pargasa.’
A slave boy in a grimy tunic big enough for him and a friend to share appeared from a dark doorway.
‘Who shall I say wants him?’ He was barely as tall as my elbow, but he knew to be cautious when strangers asked for paying customers.
I remembered Aristarchos had told me to be discreet and decided not to give my name. The courtyard’s porches were crammed with pallets offering festival visitors a temporary bed. A good few were still occupied
