‘I’d know that accent anywhere,’ the wine seller assured me. ‘My mother was from Iasos.’
So Zosime had been right about the dead man’s Ionian clothing. Carian meant he was from the southern end of that distant coast. ‘And he was asking for me by name?’
Hermes only knew how this stranger had heard of me. I flatter myself that I do good work, but Caria’s all the way over on the other side of the Aegean.
‘He knew exactly who he wanted, so I gave him directions to your brothers’ workshop.’ Elpis paused before serving another customer. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘It seems the man turned up with his throat cut last night.’ I decided not to say where.
‘May the Furies drive his murderer mad!’ Elpis was appalled. ‘Killing a guest in Athena’s own city, come all this way to honour her.’
‘He was here to honour Athena? He wasn’t just here for the festival?’
Elpis nodded, decisive. ‘That’s what he said.’
‘Do you remember his name?’ I pressed. ‘His home town? Where he might be staying? You didn’t see his travelling companions, by any chance?’
The wine seller could only offer a helpless shrug. ‘Sorry, no.’
I sighed. ‘Well, if you come across anyone looking for him, send them to the Polemarch. The Scythians took charge of the body.’
‘Of course,’ Elpis assured me.
I set down my cup on the wine cart and went on my way. My path was crowded with visitors but walking slowly gave me time to think.
So this stranger had come here to find me and been sent to my brothers’ house. They’d sent him straight back to the agora. I wondered if he had gone asking around the other scriveners, looking for someone else to write his speech. Had he said the wrong thing to some hot-blooded Athenian, provoking sudden anger and an accidentally lethal swipe of a foolhardy knife? No, this killing looked personal. Had some enemy followed him across the Aegean, canny enough not to shit on his own doorstep? Perhaps, but that didn’t explain how the dead man ended up at my gate.
I gazed around the agora, wondering where I might find some answers. Over in the Painted Colonnade, I spotted that historian from Halicarnassus who tells such wonderfully entertaining stories. The genial man had a lifelong traveller’s weather-beaten complexion and flowing grey beard. He sat on a stool with his knees spread wide, his belly as expansive as his gestures. As he concluded some stirring tale, the audience applauded and showed their appreciation with a shower of coins into the folds of the cloak at his feet. As a boy brought him a well-earned cup of wine, I remembered his story about ants as big as foxes in India. Surely, they can’t be real. At least, I hope they aren’t. If they are, I fervently hope that they stay there.
I shook my head. I could waste all day here asking questions and learning nothing. I pressed on through the noisy crowds, heading for my rehearsal. Dionysos had as much call on my time as Athena and the Furies today.
The actors must be wondering where I’d got to. I ran through the hydra-headed list of things I needed to check. Had the masks arrived? What about the costumes? How much final fitting would be needed? Was my entire chorus taking advantage of my late arrival to get incapably drunk in some tavern? Were there any last-minute changes to the script I should be considering? But, this late in the day, that risked a missed cue when an actor said something new that a forgetful chorus-man wasn’t expecting.
‘Philocles! Philocles Hestaiou!’
I looked around, trying to work out who had called out my name. Then I saw a waving hand over on the steps at the far end of the Painted Colonnade, and recognised an amiable acquaintance.
Phrynichos is another writer who keeps himself clothed and fed by taking on day-to-day commissions while he pursues his true ambitions in the evenings and slack times. His heart’s desire is a winner’s garland for his poetry in competition at one of the pan-Hellenic games. Any of them will do: Olympic, Pythian, Nemean or Isthmian. He’s not proud.
Today he was pointing me out to the young man standing beside him. Whoever this stranger was, he’d be worth a wager in a wrestling match at any of those games. Phrynichos is no short-arse, and this well-muscled lad was a full head taller than him.
The stranger hurried towards me, shoving through the crowds, either not caring or not noticing the angry looks it earned him. I stood and waited, wondering what this was about.
‘You are Philocles Hestaiou Alopekethen?’
‘I am.’ And with that Ionian accent, this boy must be another Carian. My heart sank, even though I realised this was my chance to do my duty to the gods and to the dead man.
‘Did he find you? Xandyberis?’ He really was a big lad close up, with black hair curling in long locks though his beard was close-cropped like my own. He wore a homespun tunic and a faded grey cloak, the fabric taut across his broad shoulders.
‘No, but—’
‘We have the honour to serve the town council of Pargasa.’ He seized my hands in a fervent grasp, dark eyes glittering with intensity.
‘I have to tell you—’
He still wasn’t listening. ‘We must make our case before the Archons now that the tributes are under review. We are poor people in Pargasa. All Caria suffered so greatly under Persian rule. Even now that peace has come, we struggle to scrape the barest living from our harsh and stony fields. Please, I beseech you, we need a speech to convince men accustomed to Athenian riches that our hardships are real. Our town is small and we have no one to teach us such rhetoric, not when we must stand before your Council.’
‘Wait, wait.’ I pulled my hands free. ‘What are you talking about?’
He stared at me, bemused. ‘The tributes. We have brought our offering to Athena as agreed
