‘They’ve gone to see the Polemarch to discuss what’s to be done with Xandyberis’s body. The man must be buried or cremated, and soon.’ Grimacing at the thought of a five-day-old corpse, Aristarchos took a seat. ‘So, what happened to you last night?’
I took a deep breath and related the afternoon and evening’s events as steadily as I could.
Aristarchos considered what I told him for a long, silent moment. ‘You’re sure it was Tur’s knife?’
‘I have it here.’ I took it out of the barley sack. ‘It looks exactly the same to me. I’m sure he’ll know it for his own. If not, it’s still a Carian weapon. Someone wanted Ionians blamed for my death.’
‘There can be no doubt that they knew who you were.’ He wasn’t asking a question.
I nodded, chagrined. ‘One of them must have seen me following. Or perhaps someone else in the theatre saw me dogging their trail and sent a message on ahead. Maybe that house has a back gate or someone climbed in over a wall. Who knows? Once they got word that their trap was set, four of them set out to lead me into that ambush.’
I shivered, thanking every god and goddess on Olympos that Kadous had found his way to my side in time. Sometimes real life does enjoy a drama’s conveniences.
Aristarchos nodded at the sack. ‘What else have you got in there?’
I took out the battered chorus masks and laid them on the table. Flakes crumbling from the coloured plaster littered the stone paving.
‘This one is from Strato’s play three years ago, The Washerwomen. If I remember rightly, this is one of The Discus Throwers, from the year before, by Ephialtes. Pheidestratos was that play’s paymaster. I can’t identify that one but it’s a comedy mask as well.’ I pointed to the one which I’d mangled by ripping it off an attacker’s head.
‘The Discus Throwers and The Washerwomen were both winning plays,’ Aristarchos observed. ‘Those masks will have been dedicated in a temple. Anyone could have stolen them.’
‘True enough.’ I wouldn’t want to be writing the speech for someone standing before a jury and hoping to condemn such an influential man on this flimsy evidence.
‘And you didn’t see where those men were headed, before you were attacked.’
Once again, he wasn’t asking a question. I nodded confirmation.
‘We must find out who owns that house.’ Aristarchos turned to his slave sitting quietly on a stool by the arch. ‘Lydis—’
I knotted my fingers together to stop my hands shaking. ‘We may be able to do that more quickly.’
‘What do you mean?’ Aristarchos frowned as he heard the tightness in my voice.
I cleared my throat. ‘I recognised one of my attackers’ voices.’
‘Go on.’ Aristarchos prompted.
My nerve failed me. ‘I’m sure it was one of the young men who were in the procession with your son on the festival eve.’
‘Indeed?’ He gave me a thoughtful look before turning to Lydis again. ‘Ask Hipparchos to join us.’
Clearly that wasn’t a request that his son could refuse.
We sat in tense silence, waiting. After a few moments, I reached out to put the masks back in the sack.
‘Leave them,’ Aristarchos said curtly.
I folded my hands in my lap and contemplated the Carian knife. ‘How is Tur recovering?’
Before Aristarchos could answer, Hipparchos strolled into the courtyard. He looked as though he’d just rolled out of bed, hair tousled and a stray linen thread caught in his beard. He’d dragged on a clean tunic, still belting it as he arrived. His face was flushed and puffy and his eyes were red-veined. Too much wine the night before.
‘Father?’ He was clearly annoyed at being rousted so early. ‘You wanted—’ Then he saw the masks on the table and paled.
‘So.’ Aristarchos was as coldly furious as any marble statue of Zeus the Thunderer. ‘You do know what this is about.’
‘I—’ Hipparchos gulped, ashen. I thought he was going to be sick on the pristine paving.
‘Philocles was attacked last night, by men wearing these masks. They were intent on killing him. He says he recognised a voice.’ Aristarchos’s gaze flickered to me, swift as lightning. I saw that he knew that I knew exactly whose voice I had heard.
‘He says he remembers this voice from the night before the festival, when we all met in the theatre. Though he cannot, or will not, put a name to the villain.’ Aristarchos stared unblinking at his son.
Hipparchos licked dry lips. ‘I—’
‘Think very carefully before you speak,’ Aristarchos continued as though this were any ordinary conversation. ‘Lie to me and I will see you exiled. Not just ostracised for ten years, exiled. For the rest of your life.’
Hipparchos was horrified. ‘Mother—’
‘Your mother will have no say in this,’ his father assured him, ‘whether I send you to Massilia or to the furthest shores of the Chersonese. She will have no say as to whether I send silver to support you or if I have you thrown onto some distant street to beg for your bread and shelter.’
My father would have been shouting by now, scarlet-faced and with his calloused hands furiously waving. Aristarchos’s icy composure was even more terrifying.
‘You tried to kill a man. If this comes before the courts you will be stripped of your citizen’s rights and exiled. Since I can see the guilt in your eyes, I will save our city and its people such time and trouble. I will also shield your brothers and sisters from the spreading stain of your crime. What do you have to tell me to mitigate your offence, to deserve my mercy?’
To my astonishment, Hipparchos’s lip curled in a sneer. ‘He can’t be certain whose voice he heard and there are no witnesses. It would be my word against his.’ A hiss of contempt made it plain what he thought of my social standing.
‘There was a witness,’ his father countered.
Hipparchos was still defiant. ‘A slave?’ He looked at me, smug. ‘His evidence will have to be tested under torture. When do you want to deliver
