corridor too A musician who was playing double pipes which he had tied to his brow •with headbands in a curious traditional way. He was meant to assist the athletes with their concentration and rhythm. The fluting sounds were an odd contrast to the mood of aggression elsewhere. I almost expected to discover a roomful of dancing girls.
No chance of that. I could not imagine what I considered normal sex ever happening here. Two centuries of Roman rule had not changed the atmosphere in any Greek palaestra. The erotic charge was automatic. A palaestra was where young men congregated and older men openly came to gape at their beauty and strength, hoping for more. Even I was being sized up. At thirty-five, scarred and sneering, I was safe from old goats wanting to ask my father for permission to sponsor, seduce, and smooch me. Just as well. Pa would probably bellow with laughter, extract a big bribe, and hand me straight over.
It was a relief to sidle into the sanded practice room.
"Falco! You all right?' Glaucus looked nervous. He was supposed to be my bodyguard. I could see him regretting that he had told me just to turn up.
"Don't worry; I can handle those idiots.' He believed it. His father trained me." You watch yourself, Glaucus!' Glaucus shrugged, unfazed. He was good-looking enough to be a target, but seemed utterly unaware of it.
Before he joined me on the spectators' bench, he finished his next jump. No run-up; the skill is in the standing start. I watched, as he prepared himself on a take-offboard. The musician went into a strong rhythmic beat. Glaucus fixed his mind on the jump. In each hand he was holding a weight. He swung them back, then swept his arms forwards, using the weights to propel himself. He was good. He flew across the sand, straightened his legs, and flexed, making a clean landing. I applauded. So did a couple of sleek young bystanders, attracted by this handsome dark-skinned stranger. I waved them away. I didn't care if they thought Glaucus and I were lovers, so long as they slunk off and left us to talk privately.
Weights were hanging on the walls – lead and iron varieties, in pairs, mostly boat-shaped at the bottom, with top handles to grip. These were familiar to me. My father sold a popular range of fake Greek vases and amphorae, which he claimed had been prizes at the Panathenaic Games; his discus and javelin throwers were most popular but there was one version which showed a long-jump competition. Pa's artist was quite adept at red-figure Greeks, bearded, with pointed noses, slightly hooked shoulders, and outstretched legs as they
completed throws or leaps. Many an over-confident connoisseur had been bamboozled into buying.
Glaucus saw me inspecting the displayed weights, and shook his head. Opening his left palm, he showed me one he had been using. It was a different design. This was made of stone, a simple double-ended cylindrical shape, like a small dumb-bell, with fingers carved into the body to grip. These are what we moderns use, Falco! Those old things are just hung up as a historical memento.' He passed me the modern weight; my hand dropped. It must have weighed five or six Roman pounds." About twice as much as the old kind. And you can get some even heavier.'
"Is this your own?'
"Oh yes. I use the ones I'm used to.'
"I know jumping is difficult – but don't these make life even harder?'
Glaucus smiled." Practice, Falco!'
"Do they really help propel you further?'
"Oh yes. They add several extra feet to a jump.'
"They certainly turn you into a sand flea!' I applauded him, grinning. Then I became serious." I wonder which type was used on Valeria?'
Glaucus was ahead of me. He signalled to the musician, who stopped piping. He was a pallid wisp, malnourished and insignificant, who had been improvising while we talked; his tuneless drivel told us he was the off-season act." Falco, I'd like you to meet Myron.' The musician started a bow, then lost confidence." Myron, tell Falco what you told me.'
"About the woman who was killed?'
"Valeria Ventidia, a Roman visitor. Was she known around here in the practice rooms? Had she been hanging about the athletes?' I asked.
"No. It's not allowed.'
"Was the palaestra busy at that time?'
"It's very quiet this year. Just a few stragglers and people who turn up on spec.'
"So tell me about the murder. You heard how it happened? Did the weight used in the murder belong to someone in particular?'
"No, it was taken from the wall here. It was found in the porch afterwards, covered with blood and strands of the girl's hair.'
"Tell him about the weight, Myron,' Glaucus urged.
"It was very old, historic, very unusual. Formed in the shape of a wild boar.'
"Any chance I could see it?' I would have liked to examine it, even
after all this time, but Myron said the bloodstained weight and its partner had been taken away.
"Where was the young woman found? In the porch too?'
"The slaves who come at first light to clean and to rake the sand found her lying in the skamma.'
"She was killed inside the palaestra?'
"It seems so.'
"Was there any evidence at the scene? If she was battered, there would have been blood.
Both Glaucus and the piper laughed." Falco, the skamma is the practice ground for boxing and pankration!' Glaucus was shaking his head at my gaffe.
"There is blood in the skamma sand every day.' The piper had to emphasise the point." Who knows whose blood it is?' He chortled, showing the casual heartlessness that might have been encountered by Caesia's father and Valeria's husband when they appealed for help.
"So, what's the story? What do people think?' I demanded." Look, if a museum-piece weight was used, it may have been taken down from the wall display to show to the girl. There are plenty of the new ones lying around
To show her?' Glaucus was clearly an innocent.
"I imagine,' I told him, feeling old," it is a well-worn chat line in athletics circles. Approach an attractive young lady, who looks easily impressed. Try out the enticing ploy. Come to the palaestra and see my jumping weights.*
"Ah!' Glaucus had rallied, though he coloured." Well, I suppose that's better than. Look at my big discus, littlegirl.
XIII
I asked the piper to introduce me to the palaestra superintendent. Glaucus removed himself, in case he was detected as an interloper in their high-grade club. He took himself off to the gymnasium for a spot of javelin practice.
Myron performed the introduction I had requested.
The palaestra chief lived in a small office that smelt like a cupboard full of very old loincloths. He was a six-foot monster, whose neck was wider than his head; he could only have started life as a boxer. He still wore a leather skullcap as his daily headgear. From the state of his face, he was not particularly successful and had suffered at the hands of rivals. He had two cauliflower ears and a broken nose, with one eye permanently closed. When Myron saw me adding up the damage, the musician whispered," You should see his opponents!' Then he slid off somewhere else fast.
I spoke to the superintendent very politely, in his own language." Sorry to bother you. My name is Marcus Didius Falco. I have come from Rome to look into what happened to Valeria Ventidia, the young woman who was murdered here.'
"Stupid little bitch!' His voice was less powerful than his stature suggested. His attitude lived up to expectations.
I know it's a nuisance.' I kept my voice level. It was certainly possible she had behaved stupidly." Can you tell me the background?'
Suspicion slowly worked its way into his one eye." You working for the family?'
"Worse than that, I'm afraid. I'm looking for a story to stop the family petitioning the Emperor – if a good story exists. I gather that a fuss was made here at the time and now the stink has wafted all the way back to Rome. I am supposed to find out whether we can blame the girl, or better still of course, blame her husband.'
"Blame her. he snorted.