The Lydian Baker

13

Alciphron had been right about Melanthus not being rich: the house by the Temple of Aphrodite was middle-bracket standard but no more, a two-storey building round a small central courtyard. I knocked at the door and an elderly slave opened it.

'The master at home?' I asked.

The slave shook his head. 'No, lord. I'm afraid not.'

Hell. 'So when do you expect him back?'

'That I couldn't say.' He hesitated. 'Was your business urgent?'

'The name's Valerius Corvinus. He was doing a favour for my stepfather. Authenticating a statue. Perhaps there's someone else I could talk to? One of the family, maybe?'

'The master isn't married, lord. He lives alone.' Another hesitation. 'But if you'd like to come in I'm sure Timon would be pleased to help if he can.'

'Timon?'

'Our head slave.'

'Oh, right. Yeah, sure. Thanks.' I stepped past him into the hall.

'If you'd care to wait a moment I'll fetch him for you.'

The slave padded off and I sat down on a convenient chair and looked around the room. If he didn't have money, Melanthus had taste, although by my standards it was pretty high-brow. There weren't many ornaments visible but having met the guy they were what I'd have expected: an antique bronze head of a bearded god that was either an original or a good copy, a small statuette of a man with almond-shaped eyes carrying a ram on his shoulders and a black-figure pottery mixing bowl that had been broken and carefully glued back together again. Weird, but maybe the thing had some sentimental value. The chair I was sitting in was old, too. I couldn't place it, but the decoration wasn't Greek or Egyptian. Carian, maybe, or from somewhere even further away. All I knew was that it was uncomfortable as hell.

'Valerius Corvinus.' The man had come from the inner part of the house. 'Welcome. I'm Timon, sir.'

Gods alive! He was speaking Latin: good Latin, at that! If the door slave hadn't said he was the major-domo I would've taken him for Melanthus's secretary, or even a colleague, even allowing for the slave's tunic. We were moving in high intellectual circles here. I made to stand up but he waved me down.

'No, please. Be comfortable. I've told them to bring you some wine. You wanted to see the master, I understand?'

'Yeah. Yeah, that's right. When do you expect him back?'

'He didn't say, sir. Perhaps he's gone directly to the Academy.'

'No, I've just come from there. I got the address from Alciphron. Although if Melanthus isn't long gone I may've passed him on the road.'

Timon hesitated. 'That's possible, sir,' he said. 'Although not likely. The master spent the night away.'

My interest sharpened. 'Yeah? Whereabouts?'

'Again he didn't say.' I noticed that a cagey tone had crept into the major-domo's voice.

'This happen often, pal?'

A pause that said very clearly that it was none of my business. Nevertheless, he gave me an answer.

'Quite often, sir. Once or twice a month, perhaps.'

'Without giving you any details?'

'It isn't my place to ask.' Timon's lips set. A fair point; although if he'd been Bathyllus he would've found out anyway, for his own satisfaction. Knowing where the master is, even when he'd rather keep it a secret, is a point of honour with head slaves. There again, for all I knew philosophers' households were run differently from ordinary people's. From what I'd seen of this ménage I'd believe it.

The wine came, in a plain pottery cup that looked antique, foreign and very fragile. It was good stuff, top-of-the-range Rhodian, ten years old at least. Maybe I'd misjudged the guy after all. Even so, a paid-up member of the Academy who knew his wines well enough to take that amount of trouble over choosing and serving them, let alone pay Labrus's hefty prices for what were part of life's very physical pleasures, was unusual. Very unusual…

Which, taken along with what Timon had just told me, suggested another interesting possibility. Maybe being single Melanthus had other unphilosophical tastes. Ones that would explain regular overnight stays, for example.

'You remember what time he left exactly?' I asked.

Another pause. Sure, I was pushing it, but I had to get all I could now, even if Timon did put me down as a Roman boor.

'An hour or so before sunset, sir,' he said at last.

'That's his usual time? For these expeditions?'

'More or less.' The guy was looking distinctly peeved, and the pauses between question and answer were getting longer. 'Although "expeditions" is not a word I would use myself.'

'Yeah? And what word would you use?' That got no answer; this time I'd pushed too far. I tried another tack. 'You mind if I have a word with your coachman? I really do have to see Melanthus pretty urgently. Maybe the coachman can tell me where he went.'

'I'm sorry, sir, but that's impossible.' I could hear the relief in the guy's voice. 'We haven't got one, sir. Nor litter slaves. The household is a very small one.'

Bugger. 'You mean he went on foot?'

'No. Not necessarily. If he were going any distance he would normally hire a coach or a litter from the public rank at the Piraeus Gate.'

'I see.' I sipped my wine. That complicated matters, as Timon knew, and it also explained the major-domo's sudden cheeriness. 'You have no idea where he went? None at all?'

'That, sir, I'm afraid I can't say.'

Sure he couldn't. But I appreciated the intentional ambiguity of the answer all the same. Even Bathyllus couldn't have done it better.

I left Melanthus's place and set out along Piraeus Road for the coach rank by the City gate, my brain buzzing all the way.

Okay, so we had three possible scenarios here. First was that Perilla was right and the whole thing was a mare's nest, in which case Melanthus's disappearance was pure coincidence. In support of that, Timon had said that the guy was in the habit of slipping off for the night regularly without telling anyone where he was going, and this could simply be one of those times. I could guess why: academic high-flyer or not, Melanthus hadn't struck me particularly as the unworldly type. There was good red blood there, he was in the prime of life, and Athens offered plenty of opportunities for the confirmed bachelor to let his hair down in private. Beard. Whatever. And although the academic community was pretty tolerant about individual freedom he might not like it to get around that he spent his free time pressing the sheets with a bit of female company. That would explain Timon's reticence: sure, he was an upmarket slave, but for any slave, upmarket or not, not to make it an issue of personal pride to know what his master was doing every hour of the day and night wasn't natural. If Melanthus was in the habit of visiting one of the City whorehouses or comforting someone else's lonely wife his major-domo would know about it. Sure he would. And, like Timon had implied, it was no business of mine, and there was an end of it.

Second scenario: I was right, and Melanthus was the phantom Eutyches and guilty as hell. In that case he'd got the Baker and was lying low somewhere until the heat died down. Certainly what Alciphron had told me about the guy being obsessed supported that idea, and it made all sorts of sense because like I said Melanthus fitted the bill perfectly. Furthermore, he was no fool, and as such he wouldn't take me for one either. If as I suspected he'd planted our flashy Ethiopian pal from the Aphrodisian Gate on me as a tail he'd know I'd been asking questions, and it wouldn't take a top-notch philosopher to put two and two together and come up with the conclusion that he'd been rumbled. He might have decided that brazening things out wasn't an option and having got what he was after it was time to fade into the woodwork, at least for the time being. Not, perhaps, the action of a sane man, because that would be tantamount to a confession; but then I didn't think Melanthus was sane, not where the Baker was concerned, anyway. And Heraclitus would back me up on that.

The third scenario I didn't like even to think about. We'd already had a guy in this business who'd gone out one evening and hadn't come back, and I hoped the score hadn't just doubled. If it had, then the theory was screwed; Melanthus wasn't Eutyches at all, he was as innocent as a new-born babe of both the murder and the theft, and we were back where we started. But that just didn't sit right. Melanthus had something cooking, I'd take my oath on it even without what Alciphron had told me: the guy had form for all sorts of reasons. The itch in the back of my neck told me that, and the itch wasn't often wrong.

Then there was Alciphron himself. I wondered about Alciphron…

Ah, leave it. The first job was to find where Melanthus had disappeared to. And if I was very lucky and willing to invest a silver piece or two one of the coachmen or litter teams at the gate would be able to tell me.

The rank was on the other side of the street, just outside the gate itself. I turned round before crossing to check that I wouldn't be mown down by some would-be charioteer chicken-carrier behind with his deliveries…

And froze.

About twenty paces behind me was the Ethiopian. It was the same guy, I was sure of that: there aren't many six-foot-tall soot-black negroes in the City, and I'd bet precious few of them had a penchant for loud tunics hung with flashy paste jewellery.

This time I wasn't giving the bastard the benefit of the doubt, because there wasn't any. I went straight for him.

The guy saw me coming. Quick as lightning, he swerved down an alleyway between two pork butchers' shops. I put on a burst of speed and went after him…

…slap into the side of a porter's mule which panicked and stood on my foot. Hard.

I doubled up in agony. When I'd stopped hopping around and pushed past the mule and its cursing driver the Ethiopian was gone. Long gone, and in that part of the Potters' Quarter you can lose yourself in the crowd like water into sand. Especially if you've got two good feet to the other guy's one. Hell. So much for that idea, and now he knew I was on to him he'd be more careful. I gave my crushed toes a rub and hobbled back to the main drag. Ah, well. You win some, you lose some. And the guy I really wanted at this precise moment was Melanthus. There were half a dozen coachmen in soiled tunics hanging around the gate touting for custom. I picked out the sharpest looking.

'Coach, lord?' he said.

'Not today, friend.' I took out my purse and hefted it so the coins jingled. 'What I'm after is information.'

'Is that right?' He eyed the purse. 'And what sort of information would that be, now?'

'I want to trace a fare. He took a coach or a litter from here yesterday just before sunset.' I described Melanthus. 'You know him?'

The coachman rubbed his jaw. 'He come here often?'

'Yeah. Or so I've been told.'

'Then I might've seen him around. He's not one of my regulars, though. Where was he headed, lord? Do you know?'

'No. That's what I want to find out.'

He nodded, and turned. 'Hey, Stichus!'

'Yeah.' Another man ambled over; a brother, from the facial resemblance, only this one's nose had been broken at some point and no one had bothered to reset it.

'Gentleman here's looking for one of the regulars.' The first guy repeated my description. 'Ring any bells with you?'

'Sounds like one of Dida's.' Broken-nose turned to me. 'Was he here last night, lord, around sunset?'

'Yeah. Yeah, he was.' Hey, great! I looked at the crowd of tunics. 'Which one's Dida?'

'You're out of luck. Dida hasn't been around today.' The cabby glanced at his brother. 'Am I right?'

Stichus nodded. 'He hasn't been in, lord. I've been here since first light and I'd've seen him. He's your man all the same.' He scratched at a wart. 'I saw him set out last night with your friend myself.'

'Which direction?'

'In. Towards town.'

'You know where this Dida lives?'

The two brothers looked at each other. The cabby answered for both.

'No, lord.'

Ah, well, I'd just have to be patient. 'Never mind. Look, my name's Valerius Corvinus, right? I live in Diomea, about a quarter mile beyond the Hippades Gate. Next time you see this Dida you tell him from me I'd like a word.'

'Hippades Gate's right the other side of town, lord,' Stichus pointed out. 'That's a long way to go just for a talk.'

'I'll make it worth his while.' They looked sceptical. 'Really worth his while. Okay?'

'Okay.' It was grudging, sure, but they'd deliver the message. And I couldn't hang around the gate for ever.

I pulled out my purse and gave them a tetradrach each. 'Here. Thanks for your help.'

'You're welcome, lord.' Well, that'd put the smile back on their faces, anyway. Eight drachs wasn't bad for two minutes' work, but it was money well spent: I hoped now they'd tell Dida that whatever he was after the Roman was no piker.

I was turning to go when another thought struck me.

'Maybe I will take your coach after all, pal,' I said to the first brother.

'Sure.' The smile widened. 'Lyceum Road, right?'

I shook my head. 'The Piraeus. Tomb of Themistocles. Oh, and one more thing.'

'Yeah?'

'Keep your eyes peeled for a big black guy in a fancy tunic following us. If he's there I want to know.'

Once was enough. The next time I saw that Ethiopian bastard I'd make sure we talked.