‘He was a Hellene, though I don’t know where from,’ Nymenios added. ‘I’ve never heard an accent like his.’
‘His shoes looked Persian,’ Chairephanes observed. ‘Fancy work.’
‘Red leather?’ As both of my brothers nodded, I felt sick. Having a potential customer dumped dead at my gate was very far from business as usual.
‘What’s going on?’ Nymenios asked with sharp suspicion.
I explained what little I knew, leaving my brothers as much at a loss as I was.
‘You have an entire chorus who can swear you were in the city until dusk.’ Chairephanes scrubbed a hand through his dark curls. ‘You couldn’t have been the one to kill him. Why would you? You didn’t even know him.’
‘Just as long as Kadous doesn’t fall under suspicion,’ Nymenios said, belligerent in defence of our own. ‘We’ll all go to court as his character witnesses, if push comes to shove.’
‘I don’t imagine it will. The Scythians saw last night that Kadous had no more reason to kill the man than I did. He was a stranger to us all. Now, I must be going.’ I held up my hands to ward off anything else they might say. ‘I have to get to my rehearsal.’
Though, now that I knew this murdered stranger had been looking for me, I could ask a few other people some questions to try and find out who he might be and where he had lodged.
With a bit of divine blessing, that would tell us why he’d been killed. Then I could put all this behind me, content that the Furies were satisfied.
Chapter Three
The quickest route from one district to another in Athens is almost always through the agora. You can join the Panathenaic Way and cut right through the city instead of threading a winding path through the side streets.
There can’t be a market in any other city to equal it: busier and noisier than visitors to Athens can ever imagine. Stallholders raise their voices over the morose protests of caged fowl awaiting their fate as somebody’s dinner. Traders promise passers-by the finest fruits of the season fresh from Attica’s farms, or brought in from Euboea. Garland sellers display their ingenuity with whatever flowers and foliage are currently flourishing, ready to crown wealthy guests at expensive banquets. Hot sausage vendors are on hand if anyone’s hungry, and wine carts sell cooling cupfuls. Musicians and singers and all manner of entertainers ply their trades, hoping for half an obol tossed their way.
There’s olive oil, raisins and herbs for sale, and spices ranging from humble garlic to seasonings as exotic as silphium from Cyrene. There are dates and almonds from Paphlagonia, more often than not. When the bells proclaim the day’s fresh fish fetched up from the harbour at Piraeus, sometimes I honestly fear someone will get trampled in the rush.
People aren’t only spending their silver. Some make offerings at the agora’s many statues and shrines, honouring the gods and goddesses as well as the city’s heroes. There are always plenty of citizens saluting Harmodios and Aristogeiton, who rid us of the tyrant Peisistratos and his sons. Others simply sit in the shade of the plane trees and swap news of family and friends with men they’ve served with on their district council, or fought alongside as hoplites, defending our democracy.
Even when the courts and the council aren’t in session, details of cases to be tried and any bills proposing new laws are posted on large, whitewashed boards for all to read. Anyone volunteering for jury service or currently doing his duty in the People’s Assembly has no excuse for not being well informed.
Every day is different. I always keep my ears open for some tale or some character I can work into a play. In between dealing with my own customers, I listen to the travelling tutors as they share their philosophies and histories. These teachers set up their schools surrounded by eager students in the shade of the Painted Colonnade, named for the paintings on its walls that celebrate Hellas’s triumphs, from the fall of Troy to our miraculous victory at Marathon.
Today, though, I wanted to talk to my favourite wine seller and his wife, who were doing a brisk trade on their usual street corner. Anyone routinely spending their days in the agora soon learns which wine sellers rise early to fetch sweet water fresh from a spring to mix with their wine. The lazy ones dip their jugs in the murky streams that drain the Kerameikos district, and you’ll risk losing half a day’s income while you’re emptying your guts into the public latrines.
I held up half an obol to get Elpis’s attention. ‘Half a pint of the black, if you please.’
‘Right you are.’ Elpis poured a measure from the jug standing ready on the cart’s lowered tailgate. The strong dark wine was already mixed with water, and the sunlight struck red glints from the twisting flow.
I raised my eyes to Athena’s temple as I offered her the first mouthful, tipped from the brim to vanish into the dry earth. Then I emptied it without pause for breath.
‘Another?’ he offered.
‘Thank you, but no.’ I tossed him another coin all the same. ‘There is something else, though. Was anyone asking for me yesterday?’
‘A Carian was looking for you, to ask you to write a speech for him.’ Elpis filled a cup with scented golden wine for another customer.
‘You’re
