The Lydian Baker (Marcus Corvinus Book 4)

by David Wishart

  '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 t
wo 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.

  14.

  I left my tame coachman waiting at the roadside and walked down to Smaragdus's beach hut. Now I'd got a name and a face for Eutyches, potentially at least, it might help to have another talk with the guy in the hope that they'd jog a hidden memory or two; certainly it was worth a try, and I wasn't doing anything else that day anyway.

  The hut looked deserted, but the Alcyone was pulled up on the sand and the door was ajar. I knocked. No answer. Well, maybe he'd slipped out for a cup of wine somewhere. Still, it was just as well to check. I went inside.

  There were no windows, and the only light came through the cracks in the wall and the spaces between the roof joists and their sailcloth cover. Even so, I could see that the hut was completely empty except for a truckle bed and a cheap folding table with a loaf of bread and a water pitcher. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom I noticed that one of the knife-edged slivers of light shining in through the gaps lay across a bundle on the bed.

  A large bundle...

  Oh, shit. I took the two steps between door and bed. My hand met cloth...

  Only cloth: a pile of tunics, underclothes and a cheap woollen cloak, all gathered together in a blanket ready for tying with the length of rope that lay on the bare mattress next to them. I took a deep breath. False alarm. Still, clearly wherever Smaragdus was he'd decided to pack up and leave.

  Yeah, well, that made sense, I supposed. With the Baker gone he'd nothing else to fear from Eutyches – if he ever had – and even his room over the brothel would be luxury compared to this dump. Trouble was, when he went back there he'd know that that was all there'd ever be. And he might not have even that if the old harpy who owned the place had already pitched whatever he'd left behind him into the street. Gods! I felt sorry as hell for Smaragdus. The guy couldn't be looking forward to the future all that much.

  Okay, but just where was he now? Forget the cup of wine: there wasn't a wineshop or a shop of any kind this side of Acte, the Alcyone was there in the shallows and from the looks of things he'd interrupted his packing at its final stage. Left his door open, too, although who would take the trouble to filch a pile of suspect laundry out here in the sticks I didn't know. I looked around, but there were no other clues.

  Except that the bread on the table was hard as a rock and the water in the pitcher had five dead flies floating in it...

  The hairs at the nape of my neck lifted. I left the hut and cast an eye over the beach.

  I noticed the footprints straight off. I would've seen them before, if I'd been looking, but now they shouted at me. There were two sets, heading in the other direction from the one I'd come in. The first started towards the Alcyone, then doubled back towards the rocks and the high ground at the far end of the cove; the second cut straight across and met them at an angle. Both sets were running footsteps, with lots of sand kicked up. I followed them until they disappeared among the tangle of rocks that led to the small promontory.

  Then I saw the crows squabbling over something that lay underneath the promontory itself, and I knew I needn't look for Smaragdus any further.

  Forget futures; the guy didn't have one, not any more. He was lying at the base of a scree, his head at an angle and his skull wedged against a boulder. The crows took off as I came closer, but they didn't go far. Probably too full, because from what I could see they'd had at least one good meal off him. Them and about a dozen others. I only knew it was Smaragdus because he was wearing the same tunic he'd had on the last time I'd seen him. Anyway who else could it have been?

  I turned away and was sick onto the sand. Then I took another look at the footprints.

  Okay. So what had happened? Smaragdus had had a visitor, that was clear. He'd seen or heard them coming and made a run for it, towards his boat first of all before he realised running that way wasn't going to help. At that point he'd changed his mind, or maybe he'd just panicked. Anyway, he'd bolted towards the cove's far end. He'd reached the scree enough ahead of the other guy to climb a fair way, probably as far as the point fifteen or twenty feet up where the angle steepened and the scree became a proper cliff. There he'd lost his grip and fallen badly among the rocks, breaking his neck and staving in his skull.

  Okay as far as it went; but it begged one major question. If Smaragdus had had all that time in hand why hadn't he taken to the water and swum round the promontory itself? That would've increased the distance between him and whoever was chasing him, and I knew that beyond the headland there was another stretch of beach that gave access to the landward
side. Given a decent start he could've got away easily. Or comparatively easily. And it certainly beat trying to climb the cliff.

  The answer was obvious; he'd told me it himself on the boat. Smaragdus couldn't swim, and the water beyond the headland was a good ten feet deep. It was either climb or drown, and at least the first way he had a chance.

  Well, I couldn't leave the poor bastard for the crows to finish. What was left of him to finish, anyway. But I didn't fancy carrying that grisly patchwork of flesh and bone back to the hut, either, even wrapped in his cloak. I found a piece of driftwood by the shoreline and dug a shallow pit next to the corpse. Then I pushed it in, shovelled on the sand and piled rocks on top. That would do him for now, and at least he'd had the scattering of earth that would keep his ghost happy.

  Once Smaragdus was safely underground I sat back on my heels to think. What the hell was going on? Eutyches – Melanthus? – had no reason to want Smaragdus dead because he had the Baker already. Even if Smaragdus's death was an accident, which it had been from the looks of things, it still didn't make sense. Whoever had chased him obviously wanted to talk to the guy pretty badly; and equally Smaragdus hadn't wanted a meeting. To avoid it, he'd been desperate enough to try a climb that not even a monkey would consider.

  So what did that give us? Smaragdus was no fool. He'd recognised his visitor's intentions well in advance and decided right away that his only chance was to run. The visitor wasn't a stranger, then – unless he was doing something obvious like waving a knife around – and he wasn't a friend, either, for the same reason. That didn't leave much. But then why run in the first place? Smaragdus had known himself that the game was played out and that he'd nothing more to lose. He'd even been packing up his things when he was interrupted.