David Wishart - The Lydian Baker

His eyes came up. 'You're not Eutyches's man? You swear it?'

'Sure.'

'And Smaragdus knew?'

'Sure he knew. He knew as soon as he saw me.'

'Well, that makes sense, I suppose.' He shook his head slowly. 'It was my fault. I didn't describe you to him, you see. I just said you were a Roman. And then of course you found him yourself. That was smart.' He looked up. 'I suppose you followed me? Or had me followed?'

'Something like that, yeah.'

'It doesn't matter now.' He stood up. 'Where is he? Did you leave him in the hut?'

'No. I dug a shallow grave. You'll find him under a pile of rocks near the far headland.'

'Thank you for that, anyway.'

'So who's Eutyches?' I said gently.

He'd been expecting the question, because the shrug was casual. 'I don't know. Honestly. I only know the name. Smaragdus said if he got in touch with me I should pass the message on without giving him any more information. Which is what I did. Or at least what I thought I'd done.'

'Okay.' I let that go for now. 'Does the name Melanthus ring a bell at all?'

'Melanthus of Abdera? The Academician?'

I kept my face straight. 'You know him?'

'I've seen him. Many times, in fact.' He gave a small smile. 'I used to hang around the Academy in my younger days. Not altogether as a student.'

'Would Argaius have known him too?'

'No. Not Argaius.' A twist of the lips. 'He wasn't the scholarly type.'

'How about Smaragdus?'

'Yes. Smaragdus would have known Melanthus. By name and by sight. He had an interest in philosophy. Just because we live out here in the sticks doesn't mean we're dead from the neck up.'

Well, that was something I hadn't expected, but it didn't matter: in fact, if anything it confirmed the theory that Eutyches and Melanthus were one and the same, because 'Eutyches' had been careful to work through an intermediary. Besides, I'd been listening for the signs of a lie, and Harpalus's voice hadn't changed. Either he was a good actor or putting the two names together genuinely didn't mean anything to him.

'So why should Smaragdus go into hiding in the first place?' I asked.

'I should have thought that was obvious. He was frightened. His partner had just been murdered.'

'Sure. By Eutyches. But in that case why should he tell you he was open to messages?'

That got me another shrug. 'Perhaps Eutyches didn't murder Argaius after all. Anyway, he was a customer, full stop. People like us, Corvinus, we've got to live in any way we can. Sometimes that means taking risks, giving people the benefit of the doubt even when no doubt exists and taking out whatever insurance is possible. We can't afford your fat-cat moral scruples.'

He was right, of course. I'd used the same argument myself with Perilla, although without the bitterness. To Smaragdus, selling the Baker would've meant the difference between a life of luxury and no life at all, and money has no smell when you don't have much.

'Fair enough,' I said. 'But then Smaragdus knew he had another customer lined up. Me. Or my stepfather, rather. So why leave the suspect channel open when the alternative was there?'

'Look.' Harpalus turned away. 'Just go, will you? My friend's dead, I've got arrangements to make, and I don't feel like answering any more stupid questions, right? I'm grateful for what you did, but now just leave both of us in peace.'

Yeah, well. He had a point. I left. There was still no sign of Dida when we got back to the Piraeus Gate, so I carried on home. All the way something was bugging me. When I'd told him the Baker wasn't in the cave any more, Harpalus had accepted the fact like he'd known it all along.

The question was, if he hadn't seen Smaragdus since I'd left him, then just how did he know?

It had been a long wineless day, which would've pleased Perilla — she always complained I drank too much, Jupiter knew why — but played hell with the cerebral juices. I had Bathyllus pour me a cup of Setinian as I pulled off my grimy mantle, drained it at a gulp and held the cup out for more. Thank the gods for home comforts.

'The mistress around?' I asked.

'Yes, sir. She's in the garden with Alexis and Nestor.' A sniff.

'Yeah?' Now that was news. If Perilla was taking a proprietorial interest in my latest acquisition we'd have a docile, clean-mouthed citizen on our hands in no time. Look at me, for example. 'Tell me more,' I said.

'I understand Alexis is putting on some sort of demonstration, sir.' Sniff number two, this time full affronted-Bathyllus power. 'Although personally if I may say so I think the bird would serve a more useful and decorative purpose as a stuffed centrepiece for the dining table.'

Ouch. Well, Bathyllus never did have much time for anarchists, even feathered ones. I took the cup and jug through to the garden.

I was just in time; the show was about to start. Alexis was setting Nestor's perch complete with glaring star performer centre-stage, just where the evening sun showed his rugged profile to the best advantage.

Perilla was sitting on a wicker chair in what would've been the broad- striper row. She turned round and gave me a smile. I planted a smacker on top of it.

'Marcus! You're back! Did you have a good day?'

'Not exactly.' I had a quick mental image of what the crows had left, and the slither as it went into the hole I'd dug. 'It'll keep. Tell you later.'

'Fine. Alexis has been working wonders.' She turned. 'Haven't you, Alexis?'

The kid grinned and ducked his head. I had a lot of time for Alexis. He was one of my smartest slaves, and the only reason he was stuck with the garden was that he'd asked for the job himself: gardening for Greeks is respectable, seemingly, and not just for the bought help, either; even my pal Heraclitus had arranged to be buried in a pile of horse manure. Which showed if nothing else that grade-A philosopher or not at least he had had a sense of humour.

'I've been training him solid since you got him, sir,' Alexis said. 'He's a changed bird.'

'Is that so, now?' I looked at Nestor on his perch. He didn't look changed to me: still Cotta to the life, disreputable as hell and with a gleam in his eye that suggested he was just playing along for now and waiting to let rip. 'Okay. So let's see what he can do.'

Alexis held up a dried fig. 'Come on, then, Nestor,' he said. '"Sing, Goddess, the wrath…"'

I grinned. Homer. Oh, Jupiter! This I just had to see!

The black eye fixed itself on the fig and the beak twitched malevolently.

'"Sing, Goddess, the wrath…"' Alexis prompted again. 'Come on, you mouldy lump of cat’s-meat!'

Nestor lifted a claw and reached for the fig. Alexis moved it back. A spasm of pure disgust passed over the parrot's face, the claw was lowered and the beak opened…

'"Sing, Goddess, the wrath of Peleus's son Achilles."'.

Perilla clapped her hands. 'Alexis, that's marvellous! Isn't it marvellous, Marcus?'

'Amazing,' I said. I meant it, too; I was impressed. A bit lacking in expression, sure, but for a bird it wasn't bad. His accent was better than mine for a start. 'You going to coach him through all twenty-four books?'

'He's a quick learner,' Alexis said proudly. 'Why not?' He held out the fig. Nestor took it carefully, bolted it down and gave a shudder of pleasure.

'Fuck it!' he said happily.

There was a long and terrible silence.

'Changed bird, right?' I said at last, trying to keep my face straight.

'I'm sorry, sir.' Alexis was beetroot red. 'He forgets himself sometimes.'

'Not your fault, pal. Put it down to experience.'

'One month, Corvinus.' Perilla had got to her feet and was giving Nestor her best chilling stare as Alexis lugged him off in ignominy towards the servants' quarters. 'That is all.'