"Or better lovemaking!'
"Ah, that would definitely count,' Helena agreed, smiling.
While we were with him at the gymnasium, I tested Statianus as hard as possible."So would you say you had learned to tolerate your wife -and she felt the same?'
"I never would have harmed her.' It did not answer my question, and when he saw I was dissatisfied, he snapped,"It is nothing to do with you!' I could see how this attitude would have upset Aquillius.
"Statianus, when a young woman dies a brutal death, all her relationships become matters of public record. So answer me, please. Was Valeria more restless than you were?'
"No, she didn't like Olympia, but she was happy with me!' His frustration was showing."I don't know who you are, Falc o- I trusted Aelianus and that's the only reason I'm talking to you.' Now self-pity took over."I shall never get through this.'
"That is why you should talk to me. By finding the truth, I help people contain their pain.'
"No. As soon as I saw my wife there dead, I knew everything was over. Everything has changed for ever. Whoever he was, the man who took her life – when she had enjoyed no life to speak of- also ruined mine. If I go home, I know my brothers and my parents will not understand. I have to carry this alone. That is why I stayed in Greece,' Statianus said, answering one question that I had not asked yet.
Helena and I were silent. We understood. We even understood his certainty that nobody he knew would ever truly share his devastation. His misery was genuine.
For the first time, Tullius Statianus had revealed his heart. We saw
why Aelianus had been sure he was not the killer. We too believed him innocent.
Belief was not proof.
We had reached a natural break. Statianus complained he was tired; he had eaten so much he must be ready for a nap to sleep it off. I wanted to ask more questions, to gauge his thoughts about the others on the trip who must become suspects if we decided he was innocent, but I agreed to defer it. He told us where he was staying – a dismal inn, though he said it was no worse than the places to which Phineus took his clients. In fact, Phineus had told him where to stay. I noted that he spoke of Phineus with routine disparagement.
He promised to meet us tomorrow; I arranged to collect him from his inn. He seemed perfectly willing to talk to us now, and I wanted to extract everything I could from him while we had him in Delphi, separate from the group. Then I would take over from Aulus the task of persuading Statianus to give up on the oracle. But that could wait overnight. There was no rush.
XLIII
Next day, when we went to pick up Statianus I felt my first pangs of doubt. His lodging house was a dingy hole. I could see why he would not want to hang around there. Even so, when the landlord said the young man had gone out for some exercise, it worried me.
"He's gone running. Try the gymnasium.'
This could be the start of a long search. We had let Statianus fool us. We had failed to win him over; he was ignoring the arrangement to meet. Neither Helena nor I said it, but both of us reconsidered. Was Tullius Statianus not an innocent man, as he had convinced us, but guilty and a superb actor?
Never. He was not bright enough.
Still, he was jumpy enough to do something stupid.
I knew Helena wanted to see a building in the sanctuary they called the clubhouse. It contained fabulous ancient paintings of the destruction of Troy and the descent of Odysseus to Hades. Lovers of art had to see these famous pictures. I sent Helena off there, saying that when I found him I would extract Statianus from the gym and bring him along.
He was not at the gym. By the time I reached it, I had faced up to my anxiety. When I could not find him, I was not surprised. I feared that he had done a bunk. But where could he go?
Clearing my head, I stood in the central courtyard. I had searched both the gymnasium tracks, indoors and out, and the palaestra; I had even inspected clothes on hooks in the dressing room, in case I recognised his white tunic. Finally I stopped for a good curse, a lively event which took place in the washing area. There was a big pool in the middle of the courtyard. Against the far wall were about ten individual basins, fed with water through lions' heads. After venting my rage there, I turned away towards the exit.
Somebody was watching me.
My spine tingled. I was suddenly aware of my surroundings. A
couple of men were bathing in the pool after their endeavours on the track. Their splashes joined the melodious trickles from the waterspouts. From the palaestra came the low thunking sound of sand-filled punchbags being rapidly hit. I could hear music too. The gymnasium was haunted by flautists and lyre-players, as well as teachers, orators, and poets. One voice seemed to be delivering a scientific lecture, though the speaker sounded slow and the room he was using echoed hollowly as if he had only a small audience.
The man who was watching me stood nervously in a doorway. I stared him out. I knew from his stature that he was more likely to be one of the entertainers than a dedicated athlete, even an amateur. He was pale, thin, and nervous-looking. An unsatisfactory sky blue tunic hung awkwardly on his shoulders as if it was still on a pole at a market stall. Scrolls poked from a battered satchel slung across his pigeon chest.
When I glared at him, he dropped his gaze. I kept mine level.
"See something you like?' I challenged. I made it sound as if he had best answer me, damn fast, or something he certainly would not like would happen."I'm looking for Tullius Statianus. Do you know him?'
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.