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.
XLIV
Lampon looked queasy but he agreed to follow orders. He gave me one more suggestion. According to him, Statianus not only ran at the gym; he liked to climb up to the official stadium. The stadium lay about as high as could be, above the sanctuary of Apollo, where the air was even more refined and the views were breathtaking. Statianus had been heard to say that he went there to be alone and to think.
With directions from the poet (which, since he was a poet, I checked with passers-by at intervals, I made my way along the track, back to the Kastalian Spring, then into the sanctum and up past the theatre on a route I had never yet taken. A narrow path led upwards. The climb was steep, the situation remote. A man who had suffered a great calamity might well be drawn here. After the bustle of the sanctuary and the businesslike hum of the gym, this was a solitary walk where the sun and the scents of wild flowers would act on a tortured mind like a soothing drug. I suspected that when Statianus reached the stadium, he generally lay down on the grass and lost himself. You can think as you walk but, in my experience, not when you run.
I myself was thinking as I went, mainly about what Lampon had told me. Turcianus Opimus, the travel group’s invalid, had learned more about Valeria’s killer than the killer would have liked. From the poet’s description, he may even have recognised who the killer was. Whom had he told about this? Was he ever sufficiently free of his pain-killing medicine to realise what information he held? Perhaps something he said or did about it led to his death at Epidaurus. Or perhaps he really died naturally - but someone believed he could have passed on the poet’s story to Cleonymus.
I wondered if the poet himself was in danger. Damn. Still, as far as I knew, the killer was in Corinth.
I consoled myself with the thought that he was prob
ably a bad poet anyway.
I took my time. If Statianus was up here, well and good. If not, I knew we had properly lost him. I held off blaming myself until I was sure. It would come. Every step I took convinced me he had run away from me. If he left Delphi altogether, I would have no idea where to look for him.
I was so certain that I was completely alone, I peed on the grey rocks, not even moving from the path. A gecko watched me, tolerantly.
I wished Helena was here. I wanted to share the glorious view with her. I wanted to hold and caress her, enjoying the silence and sunshine in this isolated spot. I wanted to stop thinking about deaths that seemed unsolvable, griefs we could never assuage, brutality, fear, and loss. I wanted to find Statianus at the stadium. I wanted to convince him to have faith. The misery he revealed to us yesterday had affected me. Standing alone with the gecko and the faraway wheeling buzzards made me aware how much.
As I slowly resumed walking, I transferred all my thoughts to Helena. I lost myself in memories of her warmth and sanity. I filled my head with dreams of making love to her. Yes, I wished she were here.
When I came upon the woman, I was so surprised I nearly jumped off the path, over the edge into oblivion. That was before I realised I had met her before at the top of a crag - in Corinth. It was the middle-aged dipsy nymph I had treated like a prostitute, who called herself Philomela.
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 off bad 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.
XLVI
It took us three days to find any useful information. It was three days too long.
After I had checked out the stadium, I returned to the sanctuary fast. I found Helena in the building they called the clubhouse where she had gone to look at the art. Without a glance at the famous wall-paintings, I fetched her out of there. She saw from my face that something was amiss. I explained as we set off back to the town.
We made straight for the inn where Statianus had been staying. I. tackled the landlord angrily; he still insisted Statianus was in residence. He even showed us the room. True enough, luggage remained. For the landlord that was enough; so long as he held property he could sell, he did not care if a lodger ran out on him. We tried to believe he was right, Statianus would reappear.
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