‘That’s what they’re saying, specifically?’ That sounded suspiciously like professional rhetoric to me.
‘Word for word,’ Lysicrates confirmed.
So we could look forward to more fistfights in the agora.
‘Have you any idea where I could find Leptines?’ I definitely wanted to see if he had been that man playing an Ionian to whip up a hostile crowd.
‘Sorry, I’ve no clue,’ Lysicrates said regretfully. ‘But I’ll keep on asking. Someone is bound to know where he’ll be drinking tonight, especially if they think he’ll be paying.’
‘Thanks.’ I nodded. ‘I’ll find you after the satyr play.’
Once again, I had to hurry to get back to my seat before the last play started. This time, Zosime rebuked me with a frown.
Now King Theseus was a grey-bearded old man. This chorus was the men and women he’d saved from the Minotaur in Crete, grown old alongside him. He was taking a stand against Creon, Prince of Thebes, after Polyneices, son of Oedipus, failed to unseat his usurping brother, Eteocles. King Theseus and the Athenians were horrified when weeping Antigone brought the news that Creon had decreed his own nephew, his sister Jocasta’s son, must lie unburied on the plain outside the city, to be devoured by dogs and crows.
No matter what the quarrels of mortals may be, so King Theseus proclaimed, all men must do their duty to the dead and to the gods. He would not let such dishonourable conduct stand. He would march with the Argive army to bury the fallen or die in the attempt. The chorus tried to dissuade him. Surely Athens had suffered enough loss?
King Theseus would not be swayed. Whatever the cost, those who died fighting for what was right must be honoured for their valour. If he fell before the gates of Thebes, he laid the duty of avenging him on the chorus and their sons.
Fortunately for all concerned, after the chorus lamented the tribulations of war and its enduring legacy, King Theseus returned victorious. More than that, he brought blind King Oedipus back with him. Athens would always be a refuge for those who had suffered through no fault of their own, so Theseus prophesied, as long as his bones rested in this citadel.
The chorus reluctantly agreed, ending the play on a muted note as they prayed to divine Athena that the costs of upholding honourable principles wouldn’t prove too high for their descendants.
‘I wonder why he chose that ending,’ mused Menkaure.
The family behind us were far more forthright. Oloros had just lost the competition as far as they were concerned. Tomorrow’s play would surely win the prize unless the third trilogy offered something truly ground-breaking.
Zosime squeezed my hand. ‘I thought that was very good.’
‘Philocles.’ Menkaure nudged me. ‘Is he looking for you? That man you were talking to earlier.’
I saw the Egyptian meant Sarkuk. The Pargasarene was climbing the hillside with long, hasty strides. I realised he was trying to attract my attention with furtive gestures.
I made my way along the benches to meet him on the dusty path worn into the grass by countless feet. ‘What is it?’
‘Archilochos,’ he said, succinct.
‘The scroll seller? The man who convinced Xandyberis the tribute would be reassessed?’ I looked down the slope. ‘Where?’
Sarkuk nodded. ‘There, in the dark blue tunic with the green cloak.’
I studied the knot of men in the theatre’s western entrance. ‘Going bald, next to the greybeard in the brown cloak with the stick?’
‘That’s him,’ Sarkuk confirmed.
That group of men weren’t waiting for the satyr play to restore Dionysian jollity to the day. I felt sure they were about to leave. Would we ever find them again if they did?
I made a quick decision and beckoned to Menkaure. When the Egyptian reached us, I nodded to Sarkuk. ‘Introduce yourselves, then find Kadous. Send him after me. Tell Aristarchos what’s happened. Tell Zosime I love her and I’m sorry.’
The two men didn’t waste time on questions. I headed towards the theatre’s exit, my eyes fixed on the balding man in blue.
Chapter Eighteen
The group headed south-east through the city, into the Limnai district. There were four of them, all told. Archilochos was in blue, wearing a green cloak, and even at this distance, I could tell those were expensive, deep-dyed fabrics. He might be losing his hair but what he had left was as precisely trimmed as his beard, so some barber saw his coin on a regular basis. I found it hard to believe selling scrolls in Ionia was profitable enough to pay for all that.
The greybeard in brown beside him was slightly lame and leaning on his walking staff. A younger man who carried himself like a wrestler strode ahead of them. He wore a dun tunic without a cloak, all the better to display his massive shoulders. A slightly built man brought up the rear, swathed in a voluminous cloak that would have made me suspect he was a sneak thief if I’d seen him in the agora.
I hung back as far as I dared, not wanting them to see me following. I might not know who they were, but I had no idea if any of these four would recognise me. Thankfully, they were only walking as fast as the old man with the stick could limp. It didn’t seem to occur to them that they might be pursued.
Snatching glances over my shoulder whenever possible, I looked urgently for Kadous. Had Menkaure been able to find him? I hoped I hadn’t already been out of sight before the Phrygian had left the theatre. I didn’t dare delay in hopes of the slave catching up. Dawdling would guarantee I’d lose track of my quarry.
The men were following the road that would take them out of the city towards the Panathenaic Stadium. I was wondering if that was their goal, though I couldn’t imagine why. To my relief, they turned into
