Poseidon s Gold

'Thank you, Spartacus!'

'I'm serious,' he mumbled, making serious efforts to pour himself another drink.

'Here's to the republic,' I toasted him gently. 'When every man tilled his own furrow, when every daughter was a virgin, and every son stayed at home to the age of forty-nine, saying "Yes, Father" to everything!'

'You're a cynic!' commented Varga, evidently the astute one of this rollicking pair.

I mentioned that I had a nephew who had apprenticed himself to a fresco painter on the Campanian coast. Actually Larius was on my mind now because I was thinking he might have attached himself to sume useless degenerate like these two. He was embarrassingly sensible, but I should have checked before I left him there.

'Campania's a dump!' Manlius grumbled. 'We were there; it was dreadful. We went for the sun and the women and the precious grapes-plus the stupendously rich clients, of course. No luck. All snobs, Marcus. Nobody wants you unless you're a Greek or a local. We came home again.'

'Are you in work at the moment?'

'Surely. Good commission. Varga's doing The Rape of the Sabine Women for aristos to gaze at while they stuff themselves silly on peacocks in aspic. He creates a nice rape, Varga:'

'I can believe it!'

'I'm doing them a pair of rooms: one white, one black. Either side of the atrium. Balanced, see? Balance appeals to me.'

'Doubles your fee?' I grinned.

'Money means nothing to artists.'

'This generous attitude explains why you had to descend to painting rude sketches at the Virgin-settling a bill, I presume?'

Varga winced. 'That thing!'

'You were slumming,' I said, looking at the quality of what he painted for himself.

'We were, Marcus. The need to drink is a terrible thing!'

I was tired of this. My feet had warmed up enough to start hurting; the rest of me was stiff, tired and bored. I was sick of drinking; sick of holding my breath against the unsavoury atmosphere; sick of listening to drunks.

'Don't call me Marcus,' I said abruptly. 'You don't know me.'

They blinked at me blearily. They were a long way from the real world. I could have tripped them up merely by asking for their names or when their birthdays were.

'What's up, Marcus?'

'Let's go back to the beginning: I am Marcus Didius Falco,' I resumed, from an hour earlier. Thanks to the effects of my amphora their bravado was extinguished and they let me finish this time. 'You knew Marcus Didius Festus. Another name; another face; believe me, another personality.'

Manlius, the one who rescued them from trouble perhaps, waved a hand, managed to place it on the bed, and propped himself half upright. He tried to speak, but gave up. He lay down flat again.

'Festus?' quavered Varga, staring at the ceiling. Above his head, nicely positioned for gazing at while nearly insensible, he had painted a small, exquisite Aphrodite Bathing, modelled not by Rubinia but some small, exquisite blonde. If the painting was accurate, he would have done better luring the blonde to bed, but they do expect regular meals and a supply of glass-bead necklaces. No point investing in the hair dye otherwise.

'Festus,' I repeated, struggling to organise something sensible here.

'Festus:' Varga rolled himself sideways so he could squint at me. Somewhere in those puffy eyes a new level of intelligence seemed to glimmer. 'What do you want, Falco?'

'Vargo, I want you to tell me why, on a certain night five years ago when I saw you with him at the Virgin, Marcus Didius Festus wanted to meet with you?'

'He can't remember who he met at the Virgin five days ago!' Manlius responded, gathering the shreds of his critical faculties. 'You don't want much!'

'I want to save my neck from the public strangler,' I retorted frankly. 'A soldier called Censorinus has been murdered, probably for asking just this sort of question. Unless I can shed light on events, I'll be condemned for the killing. Hear that, and understand me: I'm a desperate man!'

'I know nothing about anything,' Varga assured me.

'Well you know enough to lie about it!' I rasped good-humouredly. Then I lowered my voice. 'Festus is dead; you cannot harm him. The truth may even protect his reputation-though I'm honestly not expecting it-so don't hold back to avoid offending me.'

'It's a complete fog to me,' Varga repeated.

'I hate people who pretend to be idiots!' I spun off the bed where I was lying, and got hold of his right arm. I twisted it enough to hurt. As I sprang at him I had whipped out my knife; I laid it against his wrist so the slightest movement would make him cut himself. 'Stop messing me about. I know you met Festus and I know it's relevant! Come clean, Varga, or I'll slice off your painting hand!'

Varga went white. Too drunk to resist, and too innocent to know how to do it anyway, he stared up at me in terror, hardly able to breathe. I was so frustrated by the enquiry, I almost meant what I said. I was frightening myself, and Varga could tell. A vague sound gurgled in his throat.

'Speak up, Varga. Don't be shy!'

'I can't remember meeting your brother-'

' I remember you meeting him,' I declared coldly. 'And I wasn't even in on the conspiracy!'

His friend shifted anxiously. At last I was getting somewhere.

'There was no conspiracy involving us,' Manlius burst out from the other bed. 'I told that to the soldier when he came!'

XXXIX

'This is news to me!' Varga pleaded.

I pressed the knife harder against his arm, so he could feel the edge of the blade, though in fact I had it turned so it did not yet pierce the skin. 'Careful. You're very drunk, and I'm not entirely sober. One wrong move, and you've painted your last tantalising nipple:' I stared at Manlius. 'Carry on. I'm versatile. I can manage to threaten one man while the other does the talking!'

'Tell him,' Varga urged faintly. 'And I wouldn't mind knowing myself:'

'You weren't here,' Manlius explained. They had peculiar priorities. His main concern seemed to be convincing his pal that there were no secrets at the lodging-house. 'It was one of your days for taking Rubinia's measurements:'

'Cut the ribaldry!' I grated. 'What happened with Censorinus?'

'Laurentius,' corrected Manlius.

'Who?'

'He said his name was Laurentius.'

I released Varga, but sat back on my heels, still holding the knife where they could both see it. 'Are you certain? The soldier who died was called Censorinus Macer.'

'Laurentius was what he told me.'

If Censorinus had had a crony with him in Rome, I was very relieved to hear it; this Laurentius would be a prime suspect. Cronies fall out. They sit in a tavern having a drink, then they quarrel about money, or women, or political philosophy, or simply about whether their boat home leaves on Tuesday or Thursday. Then it's natural that somebody gets stabbed and his pal legs it: Or so I tried to convince myself, overlooking to some extent the violence with which the centurion had been attacked.

'So tell me about this Laurentius. What was his rank and legion, and when did he come to see you?'

'A while ago-'

'Weeks? Months?'

Being specific was not a habit here. 'A month or two: possibly. I don't know the other details.'

'Oh come on, you're a damned painter, aren't you? You're supposed to be observant! Did he carry a vine staff?'

'Yes.'

'Then he was a full centurion. He would have been close friends with Festus. Did he tell you that?' Manlius nodded. 'Good. Now take a deep breath and tell me what he wanted.' There was no flicker of rational thought below the painter's long untidy fringe of hair. 'Did he,' I spelled out, 'ask you about the Hypericon, for instance-or did he go straight to the matter of the Phidias?'

Manlius smiled finally. It was a gentle, undeceptive smile. I did not place a scruple of trust in that soft grin-but the words he uttered rang true enough: 'I don't know what you're talking about, Falco. The soldier was asking about someone. I remember,' he told me quietly, 'because it was the same person Festus was so stirred up about on that night in the Virgin.'