the right side and tied it over my left shoulder. Such clothing is favored by artisans; I would be merely another workman, waiting at the gates to make my way to Piraeus for the day’s employment.
I hurried through the dark streets, stepping in more than one pool of sewage, soaking my sandals in the stale wash water, the urine, the feces, and the rotting, rancid leftovers that neighbors had tossed out their doorways. I cursed as my feet plunged into yet another sticky, squelchy mess up past my ankles.
At the south gate, men were already lined up, shivering, yawning, and scratching themselves. Two guards stood at the head, waiting for Apollo’s rays to appear in the east, when they would pull back the gates so the men could shamble through. I had visited these guards after leaving Thorion’s house. They knew of my investigation and what to expect.
I walked from the end of the line in the direction of the guards, reminding myself every few steps to amble, to not appear as if I had any purpose, nodding or wishing good morning to the men I passed.
“ Kalimera. ”
“ Kalimera . Good morning.”
Most nodded back; some gave me queer or hostile looks. They probably thought I was a line jumper, something that could end with a fistfight. To them I explained I was looking for my workmate: had they seen a man with white hair? They would shake their heads and I would pass on.
Among one group were some women, haggard-looking, with unwashed hair and wearing patched linen. I couldn’t imagine why they were waiting, until it occurred to me these were probably drudges whose men were too ill to work, or couldn’t be bothered. One of them looked me up and down and smiled, then she blew me a kiss and said, “Gorgeous.” The few teeth she retained were black. I felt myself blushing; had I been staring?
It was all too easy to pass by my suspects without even breaking step. Some wore hats, and these I had to stare at a little longer. Others held the leads of donkeys harnessed to carts, or sat atop protesting mules. A very few had horses, a luxury item.
The artisans among them had a slave or two to carry their tools and wore an exomis like mine. The common laborers wore nothing but short leather cloaks and surly expressions. The slaves stood together and told jokes. What man would rather be a slave than free? Yet the slaves did not seem hungry, and the free men whose only skill was to sell their labor looked thin and their faces were taut—I could see the ribs beneath the flesh, so perhaps slavery was to be preferred over being useless.
These men, as I say, were easily dismissed, and if a man owned slaves it was all the more easy to ignore him, because no one arriving in an afternoon can both murder someone and acquire slaves before the next dawn. The front of the line came ever closer, and still no Araxes. Had I made a mistake?
There were only two in the line before me now, a man leading a donkey, and a flattop cart pulled by a horse. Apollo peaked over the hills, and on cue in the weak light the guards lifted the heavy bar and carried it to the side.
Where had I gone wrong? The only thing I could think was that Araxes had arrived late, or perhaps wanted to hide himself in the crowd. I would stand by the gates and watch as the men passed through. Despite the chill I felt the irritating trickle of sweat in my armpits and down my back.
The man with the donkey had dark hair and beard. He grinned as I passed.
The distinct aroma of dead fish surrounded the horse cart. It was probably on its way to collect the morning’s catch. Two men sat at the front, the one on the left held the reins. He was slumped forward and wore a full-length cloak to keep out the chill. The man on the right was fast asleep, leaning back in the seat with his hat over his face.
Behind the driver and his companion was a rack holding amphorae: clay pots with narrow lids, wide middles, and long tails that taper to a point; they looked like a row of pregnant