The Lydian Baker (Marcus Corvinus Book 4)

by David Wishart

  'Early days, pal, early days.'

  'If you say so, sir.'

  We went through to the dining room and lay down on the couch.

  'Marcus,' Perilla said, settling herself. 'Just how serious are you about Melanthus being responsible?'

  'Deadly.' I took a swallow of wine. 'He fits. Or have you got a better candidate?'

  'But Melanthus of Abdera is a respected member of the Academy. A distinguished philosopher...'

  'He's also an art nut, lady. One who'd prefer not to see a national treasure like the Baker fall into profane Roman clutches.'

  'That's nonsense!'

  I shook my head. 'He told me that himself. Oh, he was polite enough and he didn't labour the point, but it came across loud and clear. And he fits the bill in other ways.'

  'You mean he's capable of torture and murder? Corvinus, really!'

  I sighed. 'Perilla, you've never met the guy. I have, and he's no shrinking violet. Jupiter, even Priscus might be capable of beating someone to death with an Etruscan grammar if they got between him and his mania.'

  'Now you're being facetious. And that is in very bad taste.'

  'Yeah, well, maybe not Priscus. But Melanthus is a tough cookie, and being a philosopher doesn't mean he's immune to everyday human frailty.'

  'How interesting. I had no idea that your definition of everyday human frailty embraced theft, torture and murder.'

  'Listen, lady...'

  'Dinner, sir.' Bathyllus trundled in with a loaded tray and set the dishes in front of us with a crisp efficiency that radiated disapproval. 'The kitchen staff wish me to say they hope you enjoy your meal.'

  Bastards. Every last one of them. I poked tentatively at the dumplings with my knife. For once the little guy hadn't been exaggerating; you could've used the things for slingshot. Hell. I reached for the olives.

  'This accusation of yours.' Perilla was helping herself to peas. 'You are basing it on firm evidence, I take it?'

  'Sure.' I refilled my winecup. 'Melanthus has known about Argaius and the Baker from the start. Unless he's a crypto-millionaire, which I doubt, he was in no position to put in a counter-bid. If he wanted the statue then he had to steal it. Melanthus is our boy. Q.E.D.'

  'Corvinus, I'm sorry.' Perilla frowned at the peas, tried one and put down her spoon. 'Perhaps you misheard. I asked if you had any evidence. What you've just given me is theory. And half baked theory at that.'

  'Is that right, now?'

  'That is right.' She pushed the plate away. 'Even if one does accept your unwarrantable assumption that the man is morally capable of theft and murder.'

  'Okay, Aristotle. Suppose you tell me what's wrong with the theory? As a theory?'

  'Very well.' She held up a finger. 'One. Your stepfather had heard about the statue in Rome, so the fact of its existence can hardly be a close secret. Other aficionados besides Priscus and Melanthus must have known about it for months. Allied to this, two' – she bent down a second finger – 'Melanthus had plenty of time to put his plan into operation, and the longer he left it the greater the likelihood was of the Baker being sold out of his reach. To postpone things until you were actually on the point of establishing contact with both him and Argaius would show incredible foolishness.'

  'Maybe. He could've been working himself up to it. I never said he was a natural criminal. He just wants the Baker.'

  'True. But you did say that he was a strong-minded man. There is, at least, a partial inconsistency there which needs explaining.'

  Yeah, well, she had a point. Certainly one to think about.

  'Three. Melanthus is well known in Athens. If he introduced himself to Argaius as the fictitious Eutyches don't you think the man would be just a little suspicious?'

  I was on firmer ground here. I shook my head. 'No. Argaius never met Eutyches, nor did Smaragdus. Any negotiations were carried out through an intermediary. And if Melanthus was planning a double-cross he'd know a personal meeting need never happen.'

  'Hmm.' I'd scored, I could see that by the way she absently reached for a dumpling. 'All right. Accepted. With reservations.' Well, the lady was nothing if not a fighter. 'Lastly. If you were the only other person interested in the Baker Melanthus wouldn't have had to steal it.'

  I blinked. 'Uh...run that past me again, will you?'

  Perilla prodded the dumpling with her spoon. It didn't give an inch. She put it back in the dish with a sigh. 'Priscus asked Melanthus to authenticate the statue. To prevent the sale all he would have to do is say it was a fake.'

  Yeah, I hadn't thought of that. Still, as an answer it wasn't good enough. Not by a long chalk.

  'Wait a minute,' I said. 'Sure, if Melanthus didn't give the go-ahead our particular deal might be off but he still wouldn't end up with the statue himself. And Argaius would've smelt a rat if his customer's tame art expert gave it the thumbs down one minute and then offered to take it off his hands the next. Also, he'd still have to raise the necessary cash, and even if Argaius was willing to drop his price rather than look for another customer gold statues that size don't come cheap. If Melanthus is Eutyches then he had to steal the Baker, because even acting through an intermediary he'd no other option.'

  A long pause. Got her! Well, maybe it was hunger.

  'Corvinus,' she said finally, 'I apologise.'

  'Hey!' I grinned: apologies from Perilla were about as common as July blizzards. 'You mean you think I'm right?'

  'No. But your theory is at least tenable. On present evidence at least. I'm sorry I was so dismissive.'

  'Uh-huh.' I kissed her. 'It's worth a bit of digging, sure. Maybe tomorrow would be a good time to pay the Academy another visit. Rattle the guy's cage a little, see which way he jumps.'

  Perilla set down her spoon.

  'Marcus, be careful,' she said softly.

  I grinned. 'I thought you weren't convinced.'

  'Perhaps not. But if you are right then the man can't be quite sane. And he's already killed once.'

  'I'll be careful. I guarantee it.' My stomach rumbled. Perilla frowned and set down her spoon.

  'Oh, this is ridiculous!' she snapped. 'Do you think Meton has any eggs?'

  'Uh, yeah.' I was investigating the endive salad. Whatever endives were supposed to look like, these ones didn't. 'Yeah, I should think so. Why?'

  'Good.' She got up. 'Then he can make us an omelette.'

  Gods alive! I watched her go admiringly. Forget Melanthus: facing Meton unarmed on his home ground and ordering up an á la carte omelette takes real courage.

  She got it, too. I just hoped it was an omen.

  12.

  Next day I took the carriage out to the Academy. No prior appointment this time either: if Melanthus was our man then I didn't mean to give the bastard a chance to think up a story or, worse, to make tracks for the tall timber. I'd thought about calling in at Calippus's office and sharing my suspicions with him, but I decided against it. Like Perilla had said, I'd no real evidence, and there was just an outside chance that I was doing the guy an injustice. Also crook though he might conceivably be Melanthus was a respected member of the academic community. Calippus would listen, sure, but all I could reasonably expect from him in the end was a request for proof and the polite brush-off when I couldn't deliver.

  I left Lysias waiting by the carriage outside the precinct gates and went inside on foot. I felt uncomfortable: these places where high-powered intellectuals hang out always make me nervous, and I can never shake off the feeling that any minute some clever bastard with a brain the size of a pumpkin is going to jump out on me and start asking me questions about where I stood on the issues of life, the soul and Divine Purpose. It didn't happen, although I passed by some conversations that would've made even Priscus sound like a monosyllabic bar-fly. Education may be a wonderful thing, but that doesn't mean it's good for you.

  The library was packed to the door. I looked for Melanthus but he wasn't around. Well, the Academy was a big place; maybe he was lecturing, or had a
tutorial group or whatever the hell he did when he wasn't shifting large amounts of bullion from A to B. Somebody would know, anyway.

  I picked on an old guy stumbling out with an armful of books. Probably a Peripatetic who'd lost his way.

  'Excuse me, sir,' I said politely.

  'Yes?' Grey eyes peered myopically at me from under ratty eyebrows.

  'Do you know Melanthus of Abdera at all?'

  'Of course.' One of the books rolled off the pile. He made a senile grab for it and three more fell. I picked them up and stashed them under his armpits. 'Thank you, young man.' He turned to go.

  Gods! The entire Platonic legacy to choose from and I had to land myself with this one! I tried again. 'Then do you happen to know where he is at present?'

  'Philosophically?'

  He meant it, too. Shit, I didn't believe this. 'Uh, no. No, physically.'

  'Mmm. That is more difficult.' He scratched the chin under his beard. Five other books tottered. 'Have you tried the fine arts section?'

  'And where would that be?'

  'By the main reading desks.'

  Yeah. I'd looked there first. It was where I'd found him the previous time. 'No, he isn't there. Not that I could see, at any rate.' I was getting the hang of this philosophy stuff now.

  'Then I'm afraid I can't help you.'

  Hell. 'Is there anyone he's particularly friendly with, sir? A colleague, perhaps?'

  'You could try Alciphron. He's the head librarian. The desk right at the back. Now if you'll excuse me, young man...' He tottered off.

  Back to the reading room. I tiptoed through the silence as quietly as I could manage: one sandal-squeak out of place here and these guys stare you to death. Sure enough I spotted a big desk at the end with another serious beard parked behind it, making about the fiftieth I'd seen so far. If there was a hell for barbers it was probably modelled pretty closely on the Academy. I went over.

  'Excuse me, sir,' I said, 'but is your name Alciphron?'

  The beard was taking notes from a scroll. He held up his left hand and kept on writing. I waited until he'd put the pen down, then gave him the big smile.

  'It is.' He didn't smile back. Maybe it was my aftershave. 'What can I do for you?'

  'I'm looking for –'

  'Quietly, please!'

  'Melanthus of Abdera.'

  He paused, then said carefully: 'He isn't in today.'

  'Ah.' Bugger. 'You know where he might be?'

  The guy looked at me, then down at his scroll. My eyes followed. I was expecting Greek, but the thing was covered in squiggly lines like an ink- stained spider had thrown a fit all over it and finally slit its wrists at the bottom. He sighed and rolled it up.

  'Perhaps we'd better talk elsewhere,' he said. 'You are Valerius Corvinus, aren't you? The Baker fellow, Priscus's stepson?'

  'Uh, yeah. Yeah, that's me.' A horrible thought struck me. 'Melanthus isn't dead, is he?'

  That got me a sharp stare: very sharp indeed. 'Good God, man, of course not! Why on earth should he be dead?'

  There was no answer to that; not one that would make sense, anyway. It was just that I'd had suspects corpse on me before, and I didn't want to add to the list.

  'No reason,' I said. 'Forget I asked.'

  'He's working at home.' Alciphron stood up. He was a lot smaller than I'd expected, the top of his head barely reaching my chin, but he had the build of a boxer. The nose, too. Powerful arms, thick chest, strangler's hands and wrists. 'He often works at home.'

  'You have his address?'

  He hesitated. 'Of course. But let's go outside first, shall we?'

  'Sure. If you like.' I frowned. Something was wrong here: the guy was nervous as a cat and acting like he had beans to spill, although I couldn't see why.

  He led the way to the exit, and I followed. It was good to get into the open air; just being next to all these books had been giving me a headache. A dry throat, too. I could've murdered a cup of wine, but Academicians don't go in for fripperies like booze, not when they're working, anyway: according to cutting-edge philosophical theory it throws the soul's balance out of kilter or something. In any case the nearest wineshop was back at the Dipylon Gate.

  'Now.' Alciphron indicated a bench. At least there were plenty of these around: unlike wineshops, benches are philosophically correct. The Academy grounds are full of them. 'First of all Melanthus's address. He has a house in Melite, near the temple of Artemis the Counsellor. It's easy to find, but should you get lost then anyone will direct you.’

  Yeah, well, that was one thing settled, and a visit there wouldn't take me all that far out of my way: Melite was just the other side of the Potters' Quarter, between the Hill of Ares and the Hill of the Nymphs.

  'You could've told me that inside,' I said.

  'True.' Alciphron's thick eyebrows twitched. 'But if you noticed I did say "first of all".'

  Uh-huh. Beans was right. 'You mean you wanted to talk to me.'

  'Yes. I'm afraid I did.' A frown, and a hesitation. 'Corvinus, this is difficult for me. Morally difficult.'

  'So try to force yourself, pal.'

  'I have a great deal of respect for Melanthus of Abdera both as a scholar and a friend. He has a right to govern his own affairs as any freeborn man has, without interference from me or from anyone else.' He paused. 'However, recently I have become more than a little worried about...well, about his state of mind. In respect of the arrangement he has with your stepfather. And in respect of this...Baker statue.'

  I sat back and tried to keep the interest out of my face.

  'Is that so, now?' I said.

  'The thing has become an obsession with him. I use the word advisedly.'

  'You care to elaborate?'

  'You must see how Melanthus views this business. Art is his life. For a treasure like Croesus's Baker, believed lost for three hundred years, suddenly to reappear is something very special to him. Uniquely so. And – forgive me – to see it pass into the hands of a private collector who is moreover not a Greek...you understand?'

  'Sure I understand.' I felt smug as hell. It's not often you get theories confirmed so dramatically. I was just sorry Perilla wasn't there to listen so I could crow properly. 'He wants the statue himself.'

  'Yes. He would be ashamed to admit it in so many words, of course, perhaps even to himself, but that is my firm belief. So when I learned that the seller had been found dead...not that I think for one moment that Melanthus could be involved, that is completely impossible.' I nodded. 'Still, it is disquieting, is it not?'

  'Yeah.' Disquieting it might be to Alciphron, but I was having a hard time keeping the grin off my face. Got the bastard! 'You know that the statue has disappeared?'

  Again that sharp stare. Alciphron was no fool, either.

  'No,' he said. 'That I did not know.'

  'Argaius – the guy who was murdered – had it squirrelled away in a cave near Thieves' Cove. His partner took me there. Only someone else had got to it first.' Alciphron said nothing. I paused. 'You happen to know if Melanthus has a slave or a freedman or an acquaintance of some kind who looks like a docker?' I described Prince Charming.

  'No.' The word was spoken carefully: he hadn't missed the implcations of the question. 'But then I don't know much about his life outwith the Academy itself. An acquaintance is most unlikely, not a man such as you describe, certainly. And Melanthus has very few slaves. Like most of us, he may be comfortably off but he is not rich. Not by Roman standards, at least.'

  Did I detect the barest sniff? Gods, these Greek academics were all the same. Scratch one and you got an inverted snob. Yeah, well, it'd been worth a try.

  'Is there anything else you can tell me?' I said. 'Anything at all?'

  Alciphron hesitated. 'Nothing. Except that Melanthus is not by nature a thief, let alone a killer. Quite the contrary. On that I would stake my reputation. I've known him for fifteen years, and he is a man of strong and unbending principles. He has his weaknesses, as do we all; but I f
irmly believe they would not lead him to murder.'

  'You're sure? Not even for the Baker?'

  That got me a hesitation. 'You are perhaps familiar with Heraclitus's declaration that unity is achieved in any organism only through a balance of the opposites contained within its nature?'

  'Uh...well...'

  'That declaration may be relevant here, I'm afraid. I hope and pray that it is not, but Heraclitus's view is quite a valid one in respect of the human psyche. A month ago I would have answered your question with a categorical "no", but now... well, I can only hope that in this case the rule does not apply and that my friend is still the man he was.'

  Uh-huh. Interesting, right? And in more ways than one. Food for thought, certainly. I thanked the guy and went back to Lysias and the coach.

  I'd have to remember that crack about Heraclitus, too. One-liners like that are worth their weight in gold at parties.

  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.