‘I will see to that,’ Aristarchos promised.
Sarkuk spoke to his son in their own language, more sorrowful than rebuking.
Tur bit his lip and subsided. Azamis stared up at the sky, blinking rapidly as he fought back tears.
Sarkuk rose and bowed formally to Aristarchos. ‘I must thank you, on behalf of Pargasa’s council, for all that you have done.’
‘I should apologise, on behalf of all honest Athenians, for the troubles that have beset you and yours. There’s no recompense I can offer you for the grief of a loss that’s beyond mending.’ Aristarchos’s regret was heartfelt.
I looked up at the cloudless blue sky. There was no crack of thunder, no haunting cry of a wheeling eagle to indicate he’d been heard, but I felt certain that the gods above and below would bear witness to what we’d done here. Now I had one last duty to discharge, at Zosime’s insistence.
‘Please,’ I invited the Carians, ‘come back to Alopeke with me. I would like to offer you my household’s hospitality today, so that we might all remember each other in happier circumstances before you travel home.’
After their initial surprise, Azamis and Sarkuk agreed. Tur didn’t get a say. Aristarchos sent Ambrakis back with us, not as a bodyguard but to carry an amphora of very fine wine.
Zosime and Menkaure were waiting and we celebrated confounding the plotters and a measure of justice for Xandyberis with a long afternoon and evening of good food and companionable drinking as my beloved, her father and the Pargasarenes swapped traveller’s tales.
I finally learned that Tarhunzas is the Carians’ thunder god, when Menkaure and Sarkuk discussed the temples they’d visited in distant lands and cities. They both assured me that Egypt has monuments to outstrip whatever magnificence Pericles has planned for the Acropolis.
Some day, I decided, I really must travel beyond Boeotia. Even the Carian boy Tur had seen more of the world than me.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
We met in the city cemetery to say our farewells to the Carians. In the field where travellers are buried, Zosime and I watched from a polite distance while Azamis poured oil onto Xandyberis’s grave. He used the black-footed white flask that she’d painted for them. It was one of her finest pieces.
Azamis handed the flask to his son and stood with his head bowed. Sarkuk poured his own libation, reciting prayers for the dead in the Carian tongue. Tur stood beside them, still unpleasantly flushed from the fever that had seized him in the days since he was wounded.
That had delayed their planned departure, but now they were due to sail. Spintharos had finally pronounced the wound free from festering and agreed there was no longer any danger of Tur losing his arm to save his life. Zosime and I had sacrificed a cockerel in gratitude to Asclepios this very morning.
‘Good day.’ Aristarchos arrived at my side, carrying a libation flask of his own. Lydis was a few paces behind him.
‘Good morning,’ I said quietly, careful not to disturb the Carians’ rites.
‘Nikandros has woken up.’ Aristarchos spoke just as softly. ‘His wits don’t seem to be addled, or any more so than they were before that knock on the head.’
‘Good.’ I was glad to hear it. ‘Has he admitted to lying about those loans?’
Aristarchos nodded. ‘Though he claims to know nothing about the source of Iktinos’s silver.’
‘I imagine he took care not to know. He wouldn’t want inconvenient knowledge getting in the way of his profits.’ I didn’t hide my contempt.
‘I want to know,’ Aristarchos said grimly. ‘Whoever did this is a heinous enemy and a mortal foe of Athens.’
‘We’d be fools to assume this setback will make them give up,’ I agreed. ‘Perhaps Nikandros can tell us more about Iktinos himself.’
We hadn’t been able to find the dead man’s family. No one had ever heard him mention which voting tribe or district brotherhood he belonged to. Remembering how he had insisted Nikandros was a citizen without ever claiming such protection for himself, we were starting to wonder if Iktinos was even an Athenian. As to what had happened to any hoard of coin when he died, that remained a mystery.
‘You couldn’t learn anything from his belt?’ Aristarchos prompted.
Hoping for some clue, I’d persuaded the Scythians to let me examine Iktinos’s body. His belt was sufficiently unfamiliar that I’d taken it to Epikrates to see if the wizened slave could identify where it was made.
‘It’s Peloponnesian, though whether it’s Corinthian, Argive or Spartan, Epikrates can’t say.’ I shrugged. ‘And of course, he could have simply bought it in any of those places when he was passing through.’
Aristarchos grunted. ‘On his way here, intent on doing Athens harm, with that fat purse he got from someone who wishes our city ill.’
I nodded agreement. ‘Where there’s one rat, there are ten that you’ll never see, ready to plunder and foul your stores.’
‘So we must keep an eye out for more vermin.’
‘We certainly shall.’ I shared Aristarchos’s conviction that some enemy of Athens had enlisted Iktinos to seduce Nikandros into treachery, using the boy to plant the seeds of conspiracy in the fertile imaginations of greedy and selfish men.
He went on, low-voiced. ‘Kallinos has made his report to the Polemarch. He considers Xandyberis’s case closed with Iktinos’s death, as we anticipated. He sees no realistic prospect of a conviction, even if someone brought a case against Nikandros. The boy will simply say that he had no reason to think that murder would be done.’
‘I’m sure Glaukias would write him some powerful self-justification.’ I found I wasn’t sorry. I had no wish to stand up in court and try to explain the bloody events in my courtyard. Besides, there had been enough death. Spending half a morning with Iktinos’s corpse convinced me of that. I was content to leave Nikandros to face divine justice.
Aristarchos slid me a sideways
