With no other clue, we spent the next three days searching the town and the sanctuary. We asked questions of everyone; some even bothered to answer. Nobody had seen Statianus leaving Delphi – if he did so. He had certainly not hired a mule or donkey from any of the normal hire stables. I went down to the sea, but as far as I could tell, no boats had left with him. In those few days, he never went back to the gymnasium – and he never returned to his lodgings. He must have gone somewhere, travelling very light, on foot.
We lost those three days, and I knew at the time it could be a crucial error. Then a messenger came across the Gulf from Aquillius Macer. almost as soon as we left Corinth, Phineus had escaped from custody.
I toughened up. I marched back to that dismal inn where Statianus had spent weeks in misery. I let the landlord know he was in trouble, trouble which could affect his business and his health. I laid it on thick, mentioning the governor, the quaestor, and the Emperor; I described Vespasian as taking a personal interest. That was stretching it, but a Roman citizen in a foreign province ought to be able to hope his fate matters. Vespasian would sympathise with Statianus – in principle.
At last my urgency infected the landlord. Apart from gasping at my
heavy-duty contacts, it turned out Statianus owed him rent. On inspection, the luggage he was holding hostage had a lower value than he thought. He knew what days without sighting a lodger normally meant. Suddenly he wanted to help me.
He let me in and I searched the room again. From the few things here, I reckoned Statianus must have left a load of stuff at Corinth. A man travelling on his wedding tour would have brought much more baggage than this. For Delphi he had packed only necessities, and now he had shed even those. There was no money, nor other valuables. I had hoped for a travel journal, but he kept none. Apart from the cloak I had seen him wearing, the landlord reckoned everything the young man brought with him in the first place was still here. That looked bad. If Statianus had skipped, he no longer cared about comfort or appearance. He was desperate. He was almost certainly doing something stupid.
He had abandoned even his mementoes. folded in cloth, I found a woman's finger-ring. Valeria's, no doubt. It was a decent piece, gold, probably bought in Greece, since it had a squared-off Greek meander pattern. Maybe he gave it to her.
Then I found something else. Flat against the bottom of his leather pack, where it would be safest from knocks, lay a modest square of parchment. At first I thought it was scrap; there was half an old inventory inked on one^side. But I should have known better. When I was a struggling informer, in my grim rented apartment at Fountain Court, I used everything from old fish wrappers to my own poetry drafts as writing material. This inventory had been re-used on its good side by some ten-minute sketch artist.
For one wild moment I thought the bridegroom had left clues. This drawing was nothing so helpful – yet it wrenched my heart. The couple must have succumbed to one of those scribble-you-quick cartoonists who hang around on quaysides and embankments, trying to earn the fare back to their home village after their career fails. The youngsters had bought a drawing of themselves. leaning against one another but looking out at spectators, right hands intertwined to show their married status. It was not bad. I recognised him. Now I was seeing her. Valeria Ventidia was wearing the meander ring that I held in my hand. a fearless, impertinent kind of girl, with small, pretty features, a complex set of ringlets, and a direct stare that made my heart lurch. She was not my type now, but when I was much younger, her self-confidence might have made me call after her saucily.
I knew she was dead, and I knew how terribly she died. Meeting
her fresh gaze, so sure of herself and so full of life, I could see why Statianus wanted to find the man who killed her.
I left the room and gave Helena the portrait. She groaned quietly. Then a tear dashed down her cheek.
I faced up to the landlord. I was certain he was holding something back. I did not touch him. I did not need to. My mood now was obvious. He realised he should be afraid.
"I want to know everything. Everything your lodger said, everyone he spoke to.'
"You want to know about his friend, then?'
"Another young man was with him when he first arrived,' Helena interrupted impatiently. Her thumb moved gently on the double portrait."He left Delphi for Athens. I can tell you everything about him – he's my brother!'
"I meant the other one,' the landlord quavered.
Ah!
"Statianus had another friend here?'
"He came three nights ago, Falco.'
The landlord gave us a rough description. a man in middle life, in business, ordinary-looking, used to inns. It could have been anyone. It could have been Phineus, but the landlord said not. It could simply have been someone Statianus met, with whom that lonely young man just fell into conversation, some stranger he would never see again. Irrelevant.
"Would you call this man expensively dressed?'
"No.' Not the killer from Corinth, therefore – unless he had dressed down for travelling.
"Did he look like an ex-boxer or ex-wrestler?'
"He was a lightweight. Run to seed a bit, big belly.' Not the killer from Olympia either – unless different witnesses saw him differently. As they so often do.
The landlord could be lying. The landlord could be unobservant (as Helena put it) or blind (as I said.
"Did he ask for Statianus?'
"Yes.'
Not a passing stranger, then.
At first, the landlord pretended he had not heard any conversation between the two men. He admitted they had eaten together at the
inn. It was Helena who demanded swiftly,"Do you use a waiter to serve food?'
There was a moment of bluster.
"Get him!' I roared.
It was the waiter who mentioned Lebadeia.
"I reckon he's gone to Lebadeia.'
"What's at Lebadeia?'
"Nothing much.'
Wrong. Something bad. Something very bad.
This waiter had heard Statianus say the name to his companion, who seemed to reply with encouragement. As the waiter told us at first, Lebadeia was a town on the way to other places.
"So why do you think Statianus would go there?'
This weary tray-carrier was a plump, acne-disfigured fellow with slanty eyes, varicose veins, and a visible yearning to be paid for his information. His employer had lost him any hopes of a bribe; I was too angry. I screwed out of him that Statianus had talked excitedly to his visitor, and the name of Lebadeia had been overheard.
"Did you know the second man?'
"No, but Statianus did. I thought he had come from the travel firm.'
"What? Was it Phineus? Do you know Phineus?'
"No, it wasn't him. I know Phineus.' Everyone knew Phineus. He knew everyone – and everywhere too; if Ledabeia boasted any feature of interest, Phineus would have it on his list of visitable sites."I assumed,' whined the waiter beseeching us to agree with him,"this one might be Polystratus.'
This was the second time recently his name had come up. Helena Justina raised her eyebrows. I straightened up and told her,"That's right.' The Seven Sights "facilitator." The man you didn't like in Rome. The man Phineus is supposed to have sent over here to persuade Statianus to return to the group.'
"So do we think Statianus has gone back to Corinth, Marcus?'
"No, we don't. Why has he abandoned his luggage, in that case?'
"He was very worked up,' murmured the waiter, now anxious that he might have got into trouble."People heard him pacing his room that night, and in the morning he was just gone.'
"There's nothing to say he went to Lebadeia, though.'
"Only,' admitted the waiter nervously,"the fact that he had asked me the way.'
I gripped him by the shoulders of his greasy grey tunic."So what's
he gone there for? He must have had a reason. I can tell by your shifty eyes that you know what it was!'
"I suppose,' said the waiter, squirming,"he must have gone to try the oracle.'