See Delphi and Die

XLIII

Next day, when we went to pick up Statianus I felt my first pangs of doubt. His lodging house was a dingy hole. I could see why he would not want to hang around there. Even so, when the landlord said the young man had gone out for some exercise, it worried me.

"He's gone running. Try the gymnasium.'

This could be the start of a long search. We had let Statianus fool us. We had failed to win him over; he was ignoring the arrangement to meet. Neither Helena nor I said it, but both of us reconsidered. Was Tullius Statianus not an innocent man, as he had convinced us, but guilty and a superb actor?

Never. He was not bright enough.

Still, he was jumpy enough to do something stupid.

I knew Helena wanted to see a building in the sanctuary they called the clubhouse. It contained fabulous ancient paintings of the destruction of Troy and the descent of Odysseus to Hades. Lovers of art had to see these famous pictures. I sent Helena off there, saying that when I found him I would extract Statianus from the gym and bring him along.

He was not at the gym. By the time I reached it, I had faced up to my anxiety. When I could not find him, I was not surprised. I feared that he had done a bunk. But where could he go?

Clearing my head, I stood in the central courtyard. I had searched both the gymnasium tracks, indoors and out, and the palaestra; I had even inspected clothes on hooks in the dressing room, in case I recognised his white tunic. Finally I stopped for a good curse, a lively event which took place in the washing area. There was a big pool in the middle of the courtyard. Against the far wall were about ten individual basins, fed with water through lions' heads. After venting my rage there, I turned away towards the exit.

Somebody was watching me.

My spine tingled. I was suddenly aware of my surroundings. A

couple of men were bathing in the pool after their endeavours on the track. Their splashes joined the melodious trickles from the waterspouts. From the palaestra came the low thunking sound of sand-filled punchbags being rapidly hit. I could hear music too. The gymnasium was haunted by flautists and lyre-players, as well as teachers, orators, and poets. One voice seemed to be delivering a scientific lecture, though the speaker sounded slow and the room he was using echoed hollowly as if he had only a small audience.

The man who was watching me stood nervously in a doorway. I stared him out. I knew from his stature that he was more likely to be one of the entertainers than a dedicated athlete, even an amateur. He was pale, thin, and nervous-looking. An unsatisfactory sky blue tunic hung awkwardly on his shoulders as if it was still on a pole at a market stall. Scrolls poked from a battered satchel slung across his pigeon chest.

When I glared at him, he dropped his gaze. I kept mine level.

"See something you like?' I challenged. I made it sound as if he had best answer me, damn fast, or something he certainly would not like would happen."I'm looking for Tullius Statianus. Do you know him?'

Words came out in a pathetic bleat."I try to avoid him.' Now that was a surprise.

The men in the pool had stopped splashing about and were listening. So I led the stranger out of doors, where I could interrogate him in confidence.

"The name's Falco. Marcus Didius Falco. I am a Roman, representing the Emperor, but don't let it worry you.'

"Lampon.'

"You a Greek, Lampon?' He was. He was also a poet. I should have known from his weedy behaviour. I was a spare-time poet myself; it gave me no fellow-feeling for professional writers. They were unworldly parasites."So, my versifying friend, why are you hiding from Statianus – and what made you stare at me?'

He seemed glad to confide. So I soon found out Lampon was not just any old poet. He was a poet I had already heard about – and he was very, very scared.

Earlier this year he was at Olympia, where he was hired one night by Milo of Dodona. Milo set him up to give a recitation to Valeria Ventidia, hoping she would then nag her husband and fellow-travellers to sponsor Milo's statue. Lampon knew Valeria had been killed that night; recently he heard that Milo was dead too.

"You are right to be nervous,' I told him bluntly."But telling me is the best thing you can do.' Lampon, being a poet, inclined to both cowardice and doubt."I'm your man for this situation, Lampon. You tell me everything – then trust me to look after you.'

He was easily convinced. Eagerly, he told me all he knew.

Lampon and Milo had waited in vain for Valeria to show. Then they spent most of that night getting drunk. Milo was miserable over his failure to attract sponsors, and Lampon pretended the wine helped him to be creative; like most poets, he just liked it. Together, they gulped down many flagons. Since both athletes and authors have a lot of practice with wine, they nonetheless remained awake. So Lampon could now vouch for Milo of Dodona, who did not leave his presence until dawn; Milo could not have killed Valeria. Alive, the mighty Milo could have given the same alibi for Lampon. Despite Milo's death, I was prepared to exonerate the scribbler anyway. I knew about poetic recitals. I knew all about turning up with your scrolls but finding no audience. While drink would be a natural solace, killing a girl who failed to show was not worth the effort for a poet.

The next thing Lampon told me was even more important."The girl had a better offer!'

"You saw the better offer?'

Lampon looked shamefaced."I never told Milo.'

"Did you tell anybody else?'

"I went to the tents with Milo next day. He wanted to know why she hadn't come. He could never tell when people just weren't interested in him…' Clearly the poet was more experienced.

"What happened at the tent?'

"We were told she had been killed. Milo was shocked – and nervous, in case he got the blame. A couple of men talked to him, then they sent him away. While they were in conversation, I saw an elderly man on his own. He looked ill; he was taking medicine, sitting on a folding stool in the shade. I spoke to him.'

"Medicine?' Turcianus Opimus.

"Something strong,' said Lampon, with a faint note of envy."He was looking dreamy. Maybe he took a few too many swigs. I mentioned that I had seen the girl with someone; he smiled a lot and nodded. I never found out what he did about it.'

"Nothing, apparently. But it gave you a clear conscience… So tell me about Valeria and the man. What were they doing when you saw them? Were they up to no good?'

"Nothing like that. He was leading her into the building, as if he had just offered to show her the way.'

"Did she look worried?'

"Oh no. Milo and I were leaving the palaestra when I saw her, and I wanted a drink, not hours of reading. We were outside and it was fairly dark. I grabbed Milo and pulled him in another direction before he spotted her.' Leaving Valeria to her fate.

"You had no reason to think the girl was going into the palaestra against her will?'

"No. Well,' added Lampon,"she thought she was going to find us.'

"If you had believed she was in trouble, you would have alerted Milo?'

"Yes,' said Lampon, with the unreliable air of a poet.

I took a deep breath."And who was this man with her? Do you know him?'

That was where the poet let me down, as poets do. His head was filled up with shepherds and mythical heroes; he was useless at noticing modern faces or names. When I begged him to provide a description, all he came up with was a man in his forties or fifties, solidly built, wearing a long-sleeved tunic. He could not remember if the man was hairy or bald or bearded, how tall he was, or the colour of the tunic.

"You've seen Statianus here, I take it?'

"Yes, I was in a complete funk when he turned up. I thought he was after me.

"The poor bastard only wants the truth. Was it him at Olympia?'

"Definitely not.'

"Would you know the man again?'

"No. I don't take much notice of the old-timers.'

"Old-timers?'

"I assumed that was how he could get admittance to the palaestra – he looked like a retired boxer or pankration exponent, Falco. Didn't I say so?'

"You omitted that telling detail.' A detail which not only cleared Statianus, it exonerated all the other men touring in the same group. Well, all except one."Do you know the Seven Sights Travel operator, Phineus?'

"I think I've heard of him.'

"Would you know him by sight?'

"No.'

"Well, he's a heavily built man, who conceals his past, so he could

have been an athlete – and he has missing teeth. Lampon, you're going to come with me to Corinth, when I leave here, and tell us if you've seen Phineus before.'

"Corinth?' Lampon was a true poet."Who is going to pay my fare?'

"The provincial quaestor. And if you vanish, or mess up your evidence, he'll be the man who throws you in a cell.'

Lampon looked at me with troubled eyes."I can't appear in court, Falco. The barristers would shatter me. I go to pieces if I'm shouted at.'

I sighed.