2
Next day I tossed a coin to decide who was first on the list, Melanthus or Argaius. Melanthus won. Well, best to get the bugger over with. It was just a pity he wasn't based at the Lyceum, which was just up the road, but that was the way things went. Anyway, it was a fine spring day and the long hike to the Academy would do me good.
I followed the main drag past the north side of the Acropolis to the city centre. That way I could call in on Simon and clear Priscus's bank draft, but also drop in on my wine merchant Labrus to place my order for a new consignment of Setinian. When I'd told Perilla I'd go through the motions I meant just that. Sure, I'd help Priscus out, but I had business of my own to take care of and I wasn't going to bust a gut racing round the city on what would probably turn out to be a wild goose chase.
Athens may not be Rome but walking there has its points, and the place grows on you. The locals are less uptight about using their legs, for a start, so a well-dressed pedestrian doesn't get too many stares even if he is wearing a Roman mantle. Keep away from the squeaky-clean Acropolis where the tourists are only outnumbered by the souvenir-sellers and you'll find some parts of the city that have real character. Thieves' Market off South Square, for example, where if you're not too fussy where the goods come from and whether the seller can produce a proper bill of sale you can pick up anything from a second-hand bath towel to a trained python. Other things too, if you're not careful.
South Square wasn't on my route, though, even for window-shopping. I cut off to the right before the Eleusinion and headed for the Roman Market, where the ex-pats hung out swapping dewy-eyed memories of the Tiber by moonlight and which, for just that reason, I usually avoided. Labrus's wine store was in the south-west corner, under the portico. Labrus hurried out when he saw me coming, which was par for the course: Setinian's a specialist wine east of the Ionian Sea, and ordering special shipments direct from Rome doesn't come cheap. He was a cheery, down-to-earth Miletan, and a real find; although maybe find wasn't the exact word because he'd come recommended by my erstwhile pal Prince Gaius. Normally I wouldn't've touched anyone who had that loopy inbred bastard's seal of approval with gloves and a ten-foot pole, but I made an exception with Labrus. The guy knew his wines, and better still he knew how to pick the ones that travelled. Give even a decent wine a two-month trip in a heaving gutbucket merchantman and nine times out of ten you're talking vinegar at the other end. I'd never had a bum consignment from Labrus yet.
'Valerius Corvinus!' He bared all three of his teeth at me in a grin: like all Miletans Labrus was addicted to honey-soaked pastries. 'A delight to see you again, lord!'
I went inside. The shop wasn't big — Labrus kept most of his stock in a warehouse behind Market Hill — but it was neat as a Vestal's boudoir, and the wine jars were well covered. Another point in Labrus's favour; some Athenian wine dealers can be sloppy about remembering to keep their samples covered, and for me a dead fly in the tasting cup's a definite turn-off. Obviously I'd come at a good time, because there were more jars stacked against the wall than usual. This I was going to enjoy: Labrus never minded making inroads on his own stock in the cause of customer relations.
'New consignment?' I said.
'Yes, lord. Just up from the harbour this morning.' Labrus signed to one of his slaves to bring the cup. 'Rhodian whites, mostly, nothing of much interest to you, but there's a new red from Samos you may like to try.'
'Sure. Wheel it out,' I said. That was another reason I used Labrus: he didn't waste your time with stuff he knew wouldn't suit, however good it was. And even if my tastes did run on fairly fixed lines I bought the occasional Greek jar for when we had locals to dinner.
The slave came back, and Labrus poured for me. I sniffed, then sipped. Yeah, this was a good one, all right: rich in the nose, lingering on the palate with just a hint of cherries. It could almost have been Caecuban.
'Samian, you say?'
'From a single vineyard near the south coast. Five years old.'
'Uh-huh. For Samian it's not bad.' An understatement, and heresy to a Greek, but then I was Roman, and doing the buying. I pulled up the chair Labrus always keeps ready for customers with time to kill. 'Strong stuff, too.'
Labrus poured half a cup of the Samian for himself and topped it up with water. I grinned: getting a prospective customer part-plastered and keeping him company might be good for business, but a wine-dealer has to keep a clear head. Not a job I could've managed myself.
'A wine to be treated with respect, certainly,' he agreed. 'And a minor miracle. I've done business with the producer before but never had anything more than ordinary table quality, before or since. For that year, Bacchus was kind.'
I took another sip. It was good, all right, better than any Samian I'd ever had, certainly, and although Samian wasn't a wine I went for all that much this one I could grow to like. I leaned back and let the glow spread through me. Maybe it was going to be a pleasant morning after all.
I left Labrus's just before noon, four cups down the jar and with the Samian singing in my head. I was feeling a lot more cheerful now about hobnobbing with Melanthus of Abdera, and not just because of the wine: we'd had our usual chat before getting down to the nitty-gritty of business, and it turned out that he was another of Labrus's customers. No bonehead, either, where wine was concerned, Labrus said, so maybe I'd been too hard on the guy. No one who knows his wines can be all that bad, even if he is a philosopher.
I called in at Simon's by the Painted Porch to clear Priscus's draft, then carried on along the Panathenaia towards the Academy. Like always, it was packed cheek-by-jowl as far as the Dipylon, but outside the city limits among the tombs on Academy Road the crowds and the snack-sellers' stalls melted away like magic. Wheeled traffic bound for Daphne uses the parallel carriageway, so there was only the occasional litter plus us humble pedestrians: a mixture of students, country yokels carrying poles of chickens or driving pigs, and lovers heading for the stretch of woodland between Athens and Horse Hill. It was a beautiful day, warm and rich with the smell of cypress and wild marjoram. Good walking weather. Maybe I should've brought Perilla, although that would've meant a shorter stay at Labrus's and fewer cups of the Samian: unbelievable as it may seem, hanging around wine stores and shooting the breeze isn't the lady's bag.
The Academy was bigger than I'd expected, a scatter of buildings set in the wooded grounds of an old temple complex. Forget the idea of ragged philosophers living in tubs or dickering for a handful of sprats at the fish market, the place smelt of old money and good taste. I hadn't been there before, unlike Perilla who'd sat in on a few highbrow public lectures, but I asked a passing student and he directed me to the library. Sure, I should've sent a skivvy to make an appointment with Melanthus before coming out all that way myself, but you can't think of everything. Luckily the guy was at work, if you can call what academics do work: half- way up a ladder with his head in a shelf-ful of books that looked like they'd been gathering dust since Socrates wet his first nappy.
Philosopher or not, Melanthus was no fool. I knew that as soon as he climbed down and fixed me with an eye you could've used for filleting anchovies.
'Ah, Corvinus, my dear fellow. Delighted to meet you.' A strong handshake. Strong, confident voice, too, and that surprised me; a lot of these guys speak like they're not too sure they exist themselves, let alone the person they're talking to. Maybe we'd get on after all. 'Helvius Priscus wrote to me that you'd be coming.'
'He did?' Common sense, sure, but with Priscus you don't take common sense for granted. 'Hey, that's great.'
'Indeed. And what's more in a letter most uncharacteristically exuberant for him.' Melanthus smiled. 'Mind you, I can appreciate the reason. For Croesus's Baker to have resurfaced after all this time is…well, it's remarkable, truly remarkable. I wish I could afford to purchase it myself, but of course that would be well beyond my means. It seems that nowadays only you Romans have the money and, occasionally, the taste for such extravagances.'