CHAPTER XIX
I had no interest in staying to watch Usthius win or lose in the horse race, so I walked slowly back into the city. I was in a foul mood, being disgusted both with the comments of Usthius and my own actions. The narrow, cobbled streets fronted by the native stone and mud houses seemed to mock me as I ambled along, oblivious to the shouts and laughter of the many citizens and visitors, as they streamed in the opposite direction toward the hippodrome. Was my own mind and perception as narrow as some of the side streets I passed, streets so tight that three men could scarce walk abreast down them? Was I now at the point of my investigation, where still having no idea who the murderer was, I was reduced to being assaulted or assaulting other people? I sent a silent message to Poseidon to give me a little assistance.
Duryattes did not help any at this point either. He was mightily interested in horses, it transpired, and whined about not being able to stay for the race. This was interspersed with his admiring comments about the way I had physically handled Usthius, an act for which I felt a nagging sense of shame. I finally snapped at him to be quiet, and his commentary ended abruptly in a surprised silence.
After a good two hours of wandering this way and that, lost in my morose thoughts, I noted with little enthusiasm that I was back by the stadium, near its southern entrance. There was still a large number of people about, mainly those whom I supposed did not care for horse racing, going in and out of the entrance. I presumed my father and the girls would be at the hippodrome, since Holicius did care for horse racing, but I decided to simply remain within the stadium and wait for the return of the main crowd to see the initial discus competition. Duryattes and I entered through the covered stadium tunnel into the sparsely filled stands, and I blinked several times as a short, stocky man some twenty rows down waved at me.
It was Polearchus the Miletian, the kinsman of the dead Habiliates. He waved again to make certain he had caught my attention, and then motioned me toward him with some hand gestures. Oh, well, I thought wearily with a shrug, perhaps it is better to be with somebody than to sulk by oneself. I descended the stepped walkway to where the little Miletian stood waiting.
”Greetings, Bias,” he said, as I approached. He held out his hand, which I grasped at the wrist, and gave me a small, grim smile. Motioning for me to sit down, he plopped back down himself and poured two cups of wine from a jug he had sitting at his feet.
”If you want a drink of decent wine, you have to bring your own,” he commented dryly as he handed me a cup. “This is from Chios, although not their best. Still, it's better than the rotgut that the wine sellers are hawking hereabouts.” I dipped my cup at him and took a long swallow. Ah, it was good, mellow and delightful. I heaved a conspicuous sigh, at which Polearchus peered at me closely and then looked away.
”How goes your inquiries into the death of the two young men?” he asked softly, sipping at the excellent wine. I stared down into my cup at the rich purple liquid swirling within.
”I have never done anything like this before. I have spoken with numerous people and have learned many facts, but none of them seem to fit together into a coherent whole.
It is like a child's puzzle of wood, where the pieces all fit together, but I do not know where to place the first piece.” I gestured helplessly and stared around at the stadium seats around me. Polearchus nodded slowly, still sipping from his cup.
”Perhaps it would help you to lay out everything you know to someone who is neither too close nor too far from the whole affair? I, myself, do not know all the 'facts' that you have gathered, and am not a Prienean, so am not predisposed to suspect a particular person or family. My interest is entirely personal, of course, but I would very much like the murderer to be caught rather than have to make my announcement the day after tomorrow.” He looked at me sideways from under lowered brows and smiled slightly again. I began to like this small man with his triangular beard and considered his advice.
”I think that perhaps you are correct,” I admitted at length. “You may be able to see something as an outsider that I have missed. I certainly cannot think of anything else I can do to proceed at the moment.”
”Good man,” he said softly with his ghost of a smile. “Begin anywhere you wish and I shall listen carefully until you are finished.”
Where to begin? I decided that a chronological recitation would do as well as any and was about to begin, when a drunken citizen stumbled down the walkway to my right and knocked my wine cup out of my hands. I clambered to my feet, but my unintentional assailant had already reeled further down the aisle, so I turned ruefully to my companion instead.
”The stadium is filling up again in preparation for the discus throwing,” I explained apologetically. “This may not be the time or place for a long recital on my part.” Polearchus, who was wiping wine off his sandalled feet, looked up at me and nodded.
”I think you are right about the place, but not about the time. Why do we not proceed to my tents set up along the bank of the river south of the hippodrome, and speak further there? It will be quiet there now in the afternoon. I have some excellent wine and food, and Machus, my carpenter and chariot maker, is there. He is a clever fellow, and with two of us listening instead of one, we may be able to see a glimmer of light for you somewhere in your darkness. Do you particularly wish to stay here to view the discus throwing?”
I did not, and was suddenly grateful to the little Miletian for his friendliness and
sensible suggestions. I agreed to his proposal without a pause, and we rose to go to his home away from home. I turned to Duryattes, who had been standing close by, obviously trying desperately to hear our conversation but appear not to be at all interested.
”Duryattes, you will remain here and inform my father when he returns that I have gone with the noble Polearchus to his tents. I will proceed from there back to the house sometime tonight.” Duryattes bobbed swiftly, obviously desiring to come along, but heedful of my prior low spirits. He watched unhappily, as I followed the Miletian up the aisle to the stadium exit.
Polearchus and I strolled down the slanting streets toward the riverfront, engaging in polite conversation about the games, but deliberately not speaking of my collection of facts and conjectures about the crimes. He had business to conduct at several shops along the way, and politely asked if I would mind if he combined this present task with others. I said of course not, so it was several hours before we arrived at the beginning of the flat expanse of land on the river's edge upon which his tents reared themselves in the middle of a virtual tent city. It was early evening by now, and my stomach began to complain with gurgles and growls about how I had been ignoring it. Polearchus grinned tightly at my discomfort, and said we would shortly tame my protesting stomach.
”I beg your pardon, Polearchus,” I mumbled. “I had only a few grapes and olives for deipnon. We should stop, and I will buy us some food.”
”Nonsense, Bias! I told you I have good food and wine at my tents, and so I do. We are almost there. We will satisfy our inner urges before you relate to me the tale of your suspicions in this tragic affair.”
I followed through the tiny temporary lanes past tents and shacks of every imaginable size, shape, and color. In this early evening time, as Helios was just beginning to urge the sun's horses below the horizon, the shades of color were muted and the shadows caused by erect poles, barrels, carts, and hanging laundry were starting to lengthen. Ropes and guy lines ran every which way, and I reflected wryly to myself that you could easily throttle yourself, if you tried to play the children's game of tag in this rabbit warren.
Most of the inhabitants of this makeshift town were at the stadium, although I thought they should be coming home soon, as the discus throwing event must be about over in the growing twilight. There were a few people about, most of them appearing to be women starting meals over braziers, a group of children running about in noisy abandon even at this hour, and various slav
es and servants guarding their masters temporary homes. The overhanging gray clouds had begun to drizzle again, causing most of the adults to be swathed in cloaks with hoods or hats.
”Here is my kingdom by your city,” announced Polearchus, stopping in front of a cluster of tents. He swept his arm negligently over an area of four square-shaped structures, eliciting a grunt of surprise from me.
”They are made with prearranged poles that we brought with the tent coverings from Miletus in a wagon. I have done some traveling up and down the length of Ionia in the service of the Miletian Assembly and came to the conclusion several years ago that it was foolish to depend on what you could find in the local area for your comfort.” He strode toward the largest of the four, strange-looking tents, and called out for Machus.
Nobody appeared.
”Perhaps he is out finishing the purchasing for our dorpon meal,” Polearchus mused to me over his shoulder, as he flung aside the hanging cloth that served as the door to the tent. “Although I thought we had sufficient food for the rest of today. Ho, Machus, are you in there?”
The Miletian thrust his head inside the tent, peering around its dark interior, and I heard him grunt in surprise.
”Machus, what in the name of Apollo are you doing? What is....” His voice
trailed off, and he moved inside the structure. I stuck my head in turn inside the opening to see him hurrying over in the gloom toward a form lying on the floor near the back edge of the tent. There were large bales and bundles scattered about the interior, and I had a fleeting thought that the Miletian must be conducting a great deal of business in addition to attending the athletic contests.
It was the last coherent thought I had for several moments, because my head abruptly exploded in pain.
I have no way of telling how much time slipped by before I became conscious of my surroundings, but I think it was only an instant or two. I found myself lying face down, my cheek pressed against a small, rough stone in the packed dirt floor. I heard what sounded like struggling and grunting close by, and then a muffled shriek, quickly chopped off. I tried to lift my head, which unaccountably felt very heavy, not my usual head at all. I was rewarded for this effort by an incredible spear of pain below and to the rear of my right ear, which forced me back to the floor with a jolt.
Vaguely I noted a heavily swathed figure moving about in the gloom. Must be Polearchus, I considered owlishly. But why was I on the floor, and where had this intense agony come from? I reached back fumbling to the right side of my head and felt warm liquid on my searching fingers. Blood, I thought incredulously? What is happening here?
The figure had reached a low brazier in another corner of the tent, and I saw it reach into the bowl with a pair of bronze tongs and stir the sleeping coals around. Selecting a live one, it hesitated for a moment, glancing here and there, and then grunted in satisfaction. It strode a length over to an olive oil jug, snared the jug in its other hand, and poured the olive oil over a bundle of clothing nearby. Another grunt of satisfaction.
I really must get up, I deliberated to myself, but my body refused to cooperate, only my
bloodied hand scrabbling ineffectually at the dirt floor.
The figure now thrust the tongs holding the live coal against the oil-soaked rags, watching with apparent contentment, as the bundle smoldered briefly and then burst into flames. It dropped the tongs, and moved in a scuttling sideways fashion to stand over me. Polearchus, I thought wildly, what are you doing? Help me up!
Instead, the figure swung back a foot and kicked me soundly in the ribs. My breath gushed out of my lungs in a rush as new agony erupted in my side! The figure seemed to consider the situation for a moment, gave me another vicious kick for good measure, and then turned to stride out of the tent into the lighter grayness outside. Doubled up in an anguished ball, all I could see was that my assailant waited for an instant in the doorway, glanced back and forth, and then the hooded form was gone.
I lay on the hard-packed earth and fought to draw air into my tortured lungs. I drew in several shaky breaths amidst considerable pain, and then turned my head back towards the rear of the tent. Terror gripped my brain, forcing its way through the pain!
The bundle of clothing was burning brightly, and another bundle next to it now caught as well. Get up, Bias you idiot, I screamed to myself, before everything in this tent goes up in flames!
This time my battered body must have received the message, because I rolled slightly to my side and managed to sit up. But the effort this simple move took exhausted me, and I sat propped against a bale by the door of the tent, staring stupidly at the fire. The hungry flames had now spread to the far wall of the cloth structure and began to lick up the sides toward the ceiling. The smoke reached me in a long, curling tendril, and I sucked it in, coughing roughly and redoubling the agony in my chest from my kicked ribs. Move, I must move!
The smoke thickened rapidly, billowing out from the flaming bundles of trade goods in the big tent. The heat became terrific, sapping my strength and will to move. I tried to stand, gave up the idea quickly as a foolish luxury, and began to crawl the short distance toward the tent entrance. It felt like the flames were lapping at my heels, and I thought I could feel them fondling my feet, singing the hair of my lower legs. Poseidon, help me! Clutching the edges of the opening with my grasping hands, I pulled myself halfway out of the tent into the damp grass outside. Rolling over, I beat weakly at my smoldering sandals with my hands and looked up to see the entire front of the structure blazing above me!
Suddenly, hands grasped me under my arms and jerked me unceremoniously backwards. I slid along the wet ground, my heels dragging in the mud, until I was four or five lengths from the burning tent. Laying in the mist and drizzle I saw my rescuer shoot me a look of concern and turn abruptly away to join several other men flinging water on the conflagration. There was a great deal of shouting and noise, and I reflected to myself that I never knew fires were so loud. At that point my mind said, enough is enough, and the blackness of unconsciousness washed over me.
I do not know how long I lay there in the cold mud, as the fire burned through a good tenth of that tent city. When I awoke I was laying under a flap of cloth, the rain dripping through onto my chilled form and the sun completely gone. I fluttered a hand up to gingerly touch my head, which seemed to be a temporary home for the forge of Hephaestus, and discovered that it had at least stopped bleeding. Very carefully sitting up, I peered around me in some confusion.
Torches and smoldering remnants of burnt tents and shacks provided some light, transforming the scene into a realistic version of the outskirts of Hades. Smoke and mist had combined to wreath the whole area with a confusing grayness, through which figures moved, talking loudly back and forth. The smell of burnt meat permeated the air, as if we were back at the sacrificial barbecue of the Panionion. I started with surprise when a face suddenly loomed up from the left.
”Are you all right then, sir?” the face asked, looking deliberately at me from an
arm's length away. “I thought the fire might have finished you off, eh?”
”Are you the one who pulled me from the tent?” I croaked, my throat seared and my voice almost unrecognizable. I blinked at the man in front of me, noting his rough tunic and unkempt hair. Somebody's servant.
”Aye, sir, that was me,” he affirmed with a grim smile. “Fire almost had you, it did. Let us see if you can stand, eh?” He stepped forward, grasped me roughly under the arms again, and hoisted me none too gently to my feet. I swayed there for several moments in his arms.
”My thanks for saving me,” I gasped, regarding the scene about me with shock and dismay. All around were the blackened remains of people's temporary homes, and people were scurrying or trudging here and there, trying to make some order out of the chaos. My benefactor glanced about.
”Could have been much worse without the rain,” he commented, spitting abrupt
ly on the ground. “Twenty or so tents have gone, but luckily most of the people were still coming back from the stadium. My master's tents made it through right enough.” He gestured with a shrug toward an impressive set of tents to our right.
He let go of me to see if I could stand on my own, and nodded approvingly when I did not immediately collapse on the ground. My head and ribs hurt abominably, but I was undoubtedly lucky to be alive and relatively unburnt. I glanced down at my legs, noting with detached interest that much of the hair had been singed off my calves and that the skin there smarted as if badly sunburned. Lucky indeed.
”I was a guest of Polearchus of Miletus,” I said to the burly servant, who had turned to walk away back to his master's area now that I was apparently mobile.
”Have you seen him about?” The man turned back to me, and eyed me dourly for a heartbeat.
”Polearchus is dead, sir. He and his slave Machus. Too bad. Machus was a good man. They were killed in the fire. Only ones we have found dead so far. Whatever goddess wept today in the heavens smiled on you, eh? Without her tears of rain, you and many others might be waking up in the underworld.” He sniffed and walked away.
Edwards—Murder At The Panionic Games