See Delphi and Die

XLV

She was standing on the narrow path, gazing out at the vista with extravagant enjoyment. She wore a many-pleated white Greek dress, folded over on the shoulders in the classical manner – a style which modern matrons had abandoned decades ago, instead copying Roman imperial fashion. Once again, her hair was bundled up in a scarf, which she had wrapped around her head in a couple of turns and tied in a small knot above her forehead. The classical look. This lady had gazed at a lot of old statues.

Now she was looking at me. Her wistful air was immediately familiar; that kind of wide-eyed wonderment seriously annoys me. She too was startled by our sudden confrontation. She stopped the blissful reverie, and became nervous.

"Well, fancy!' I made it avuncular. Not much choice but to gulp and be cheerful. Maybe she had forgotten how crassly I had insulted her. No. I could see she remembered me all too well."I'm Falco and you are Philomela, the Hellenophile nightingale.' She had dark eyes and had spent hours with hot tongs making herself a fringe of curly hair, but she was not Greek. I remembered she had spoken perfectly good Latin. I spoke in Latin automatically.

She continued staring.

I continued the jocularity."Your pseudonym comes from a savage myth! You know it? Tereus, King of Thrace or some other place with hideous habits, lusts for his sister-in-law, rapes her, and cuts her tongue out so she cannot tell on him. She alerts her sister Procne by weaving the tale into a tapestry – then the sisters plot against Tereus. They serve up his son in his dinner, That charmless Greek cannibalism yet again! Having dinner at home in classical times must have taken a lot of nerve."Then the gods turn everyone into birds. Philomela is the swallow, in the Greek poems. She's lost her tongue. Swallows don't cheep. Roman poets changed the birds around, for reasons which defy logic. If you think she's the nightingale, that shows that you're Roman.'

The woman heard me out, then said curtly,"You don't look like a man who knows the myths.'

"Correct. I asked my wife.'

"You don't look like a man with a wife.'

"Incorrect! I mentioned her. Currently she is looking at art.'

"She's sensible. When her man travels, she goes too, to keep him chaste.'

"Depends on the man, lady. Or more to the point, it depends on the wife.' I was dealing with a man-hater, apparently."Knowing her virtues is what keeps me chaste. As for myths, I am an informer.' Time to get that straight."I deal with adultery, rape, and jealousy – but in the real world and with undeniably human killers… Where are you from, Philomela?'

"Tusculum,' she admitted reluctantly. Close to Rome. My mother's family, who grew vegetables on the Campagna, would sneer. This glassy-eyed mystic would not surprise them. My uncles thought people from Tusculum were all pod and no bean. (Though coming from my crazy Uncles Fabius and Junius, that was rich!)

"And what's your real name, your Roman name?' To that there came no answer. Perhaps it did not matter, I thought – mistakenly, as usual.

Philomela must already have been up to see the stadium. She was now looking past me, yearning to squeeze by and make her way downhill. The path was narrow; I was blocking it.

"You travel alone?' She nodded. For a woman of any status that was unusual, and I let my surprise show.

"I went with a group once!' Her tone was caustic.

"Oh, bad choice!' My own tone was sour too, yet we shared no sense"of complicity.

Who was she? Her accent seemed aristocratic. Her neat hands had never done hard labour. I wondered if she had money; she must have. She should have been married once, given her age (she looked menopausal, which could explain her crazy air. Were there children? If so, they despaired of her, for sure. I bet she was divorced. Under the fey manner, I saw a stubborn trace of oddness. She knew people thought she was crazy – and she damn well did not care.

I knew her type. You could call her independent – or a social menace. Many would find her irritating – Helena for one. I bet Philomela blamed men for her misfortunes, and I bet the men she had known all said it was her own fault. One thing was sure. innkeepers,

waiters, and muleteers would think she was fair game. Maybe she was, too. Maybe this woman stayed in Greece for free love with menials, thinking Greece was far enough from Rome not to cause a scandal.

She had watched my mental summing up; perhaps she saw it as disparaging. Now she chose to give more explanation, making it sound mundane."I live in Greece these days. I have a house in Athens, but I like to revisit sacred sites.'

"You enjoy fending ofFbad guides?'

"I ignore them. I commune with the gods.' I managed not to groan.

"You must be a woman without ties.' Relatives would lock her away.

"I like to be alone.' Dear gods, she really had gone native. No doubt she only ate honey if it came from Hymettus, and she harboured obsessive theories on the ingredients for home-made ambrosia…

"A convert to Achaea?' I gestured to the scenery."If it were all as beautiful as this, we would all emigrate…'

Abruptly she was through with me."I don't enjoy small talk, Falco.'

"Good.' I was bored with her anyway."Straight question. if you have just been right up to the stadium, did you see a man running on the track? A bereaved man taking solace there, grappling with his grief?'

"I saw no one… May I pass, please?'

"Just a moment more. I met you before in Corinth; now you are here. Have your recent travels taken you to Olympia?'

"I dislike Olympia. I have not been there.' Never? She must have been, to decide she disliked the place.

Instinct made me persist."The man I want lost his young wife there – murdered in terrible circumstances. They were very recently married; she was just nineteen. The experience has destroyed him too.'

Philomela frowned. She lowered her voice and spoke less dreamily than usual."You must be worried for him.' Almost without pausing she added,"I cannot help you with this.'

I made a gesture of regret then courteously stepped off the path, leaving her way free. She passed me in a rattle of cheap bead bangles and a haze of simple rosemary oil.

She looked back, chin up as if she intended to say something significant. Then she seemed to change her mind. She could see I was still going up to the stadium; she chided me. 'I told you I saw nobody. There is no one up there.'

I shrugged."Thank you. I have to check everything for myself I

stepped back on to the path, then saluted quietly."Until we meet again.'

Her eyes hardened as she decided, not if I can help it. But I was sure it would happen. I don't believe in coincidence.

I carried on up to the stadium, which I found lay just ahead.

Anyone who liked running would enjoy running here. The stadium at Delphi seemed to lie on the doorstep of the gods. The bastards were up in the blue heavens, all lying on their elbows, smiling at the fraught actions of tiny mortal men… I could not help myself. I made a rude gesture skywards.

A standard track had been carved out of the hillside, with crude earth stands and one long stone bench for the judges. Stone starting-lines were at the end, like those Glaucus had demonstrated at Olympia. The place was crying out for a big Roman benefactor to install proper seating, but with Delphi so run-down nowadays that would need to be someone brave enough to love Greece and the Greek ideal very much indeed. Vespasian was a generous emperor, but he had been dragged along on Nero's embarrassing Greek tour and would have bad memories.

Nobody was visible. Up here on the tops, eagles or buzzards were languidly circling, but they made useless witnesses. There was nowhere to hide. Statianus was not here and I guessed he had probably not been here today. He had broken our appointment and become a fugitive. That was bad enough. But if he was really innocent, then somebody else was guilty. Phineus was locked up in Corinth, but maybe some other killer was still out on the loose. Tullius Statianus could be a target now. I had to find out where he had gone – and I had to reach him first.