The Lydian Baker (Marcus Corvinus Book 4) Read online

  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.'

  Was there an edge to his voice? Maybe it was just my imagination, but I didn't think so. I'd heard this kind of stuff from Greeks before, although not always put so politely. Translated into simple Latin it meant: 'You Roman bastards are all made of money, and the only culture you'll ever have is the one you buy from us. So just be humbly grateful that we're willing to sell you it, okay?'

  'Uh, yeah,' I said carefully. 'Well, if you'll forgive me for saying so, pal, not every Roman would bother to outbid you even if he could afford it. And tastes vary, even here in Athens.'

  Melanthus patted me on the shoulder. 'True. That I would believe. We live in a decadent, materialistic age, Corvinus. But don't misunderstand me; I'm not vain enough to assume that everyone subscribes to my values, here or elsewhere. I suppose we must be grateful
that Romans of your stepfather's stamp exist. But perhaps we can talk more comfortably in the garden.'

  He led the way outside to a marble bench under a pear tree, and we sat down.

  'Incidentally,' I said,'I hear we share the same wine merchant.'

  'Labrus?' He gave me a sharp look. 'Indeed? You use him too?'

  'Yeah. He try you with his new batch of Samian?'

  'Yes, he did, as a matter of fact. I found it pleasant enough, although a little' he paused 'unsubtle. Especially for a Samos wine.'

  'Is that so, now?' Forget instant rapport: the guy was beginning seriously to get up my nose. I shifted tack. 'You think this Baker statue could be genuine?'

  'I'm a philosopher. I don't venture an opinion without proof.'

  'But it's possible?'

  'Everything's possible. In theory, at least. I'd prefer to suspend judgment completely until I've seen it, that's all.'

  'Okay. So would you like to give me some basic details?'

  'Details of what?'

  'Pal, you could write what I know about antiques on a busted sandal strap and still have room for the stitching. And Priscus's letter wasn't what you'd call informative. Not to someone of my level of intelligence, anyway.'

  'You underrate yourself, my dear fellow.'

  'Assume that I don't.'

  That called out the smile again. 'You know, Socrates was once told that the Delphic oracle had called him the wisest man alive. He puzzled over that for a long time before deciding that what Apollo had meant was that he alone was aware of his own ignorance.'

  'Is that right?' I was finding difficulty not grinding my teeth. 'Then maybe my powers of self-assessment are better than his were.'

  Melanthus laughed suddenly. 'You should come here more often, Corvinus,' he said. 'You have a talent for dialectic. Very well. To answer your question. You know that the Baker was gifted to Delphi by King Croesus of Lydia some six hundred years ago? And that it was part of a larger dedication?'

  'Yeah. That much I do know.'

  'The temple records describe it as a solid gold figure of a woman four and a half feet high, standing erect and holding a loaf of bread and an ear of wheat.'

  'Why a baker?'

  'According to the story, Croesus's baker saved his life, and in gratitude he had the statue cast in her likeness. Personally I think it far more likely that the figure was of some Lydian goddess with whom the Delphians were unfamiliar, but that's immaterial.'

  'Fair enough. So what happened to it?'

  'No one knows; not for certain. The temple records that might have contained the information have been lost. The Phocians may have taken it when they plundered Delphi, or it might have been the Gauls seventy years later. It could even have been your Roman Sulla, although that is less likely since that would bring the disappearance almost within living memory. Essentially, though, whoever was responsible, the Baker has been missing for a very long time. What I would like to know – and a question I will certainly be asking – is how this Argaius happened to come into possession of it. And I'll expect him to have a convincing answer.'

  I nodded. Patronising tone or not, at least the guy showed a healthy degree of scepticism. I'd like to hear the answer to that one myself. 'Okay. So far as it goes. But even if the answer is convincing it still doesn't mean the statue itself is genuine.'

  'No. But then again I can't claim Socrates's modesty. Or, if you'll forgive me, your own. Where archaic statues are concerned I must admit to knowing a great deal. There are features of style and treatment that are unmistakable and which a layman, however good a craftsman he might be, wouldn't even notice, let alone be able to reproduce. Don't worry. If the Baker is a forgery – even a very skilful one – I shall certainly be able to tell. And if I have any doubt – any doubt at all – I'll advise you not to proceed with the purchase.'

  Well, you couldn't say fairer than that, and the guy seemed genuine. Obnoxious, but genuine. And he certainly made me feel better about this whole business, because if – when – he blew the whistle on the deal then Priscus would take from him what he wouldn't take from me.

  'So the next step is to set up a meeting with Argaius, right?' I said.

  'Indeed. And, more important, a viewing. You have the man's address? He has a business near the Serangeion, I understand?'

  'Yeah. I'll go down to the Piraeus tomorrow and fix something up.'

  'Good.' Melanthus got to his feet. 'Then you'll be in touch.'

  'Sure.' I stood up too.

  'You can always reach me here.' Melanthus held out his hand. 'And now I really must get back to work. A pleasure talking to you, Valerius Corvinus.'

  'Yeah. Likewise,' I lied.

  I took myself out of the hallowed grounds and back to the sordid hustle and bustle of the city. I'd been impressed, sure, despite myself: the guy seemed to have his head screwed on, and I reckoned that as far as the authentication went he was the best I'd get. Still, there was something about him that didn't quite fit. And not just because he wasn't my type, either...

  Ah, leave it. Maybe I was just allergic to academics and it was my own prejudices showing.

  One of the stallholders inside the Dipylon was selling little jointed wooden monkeys that climbed a stick when you pulled on a string, and I bought one to give to Perilla. Socrates or not, I knew my intellectual limitations. Climbing monkeys just about fitted.

  3.

  I got our coachman Lysias to drive me down to the Piraeus early next morning. The Piraeus isn't exactly one of my favourite places; in fact it depresses me like hell. You'd think that as Athens's port it'd be thriving, like Ostia, but it isn't, and hasn't been for years; oh, sure, the area around the main harbour is prosperous enough, but that's about all most foreigners fresh off the boat see before the ubiquitous cabbies or chairmen have snapped them up and whisked them off up City Road to the City itself (to Athenians born and bred Athens has always been the City; capital 'C' on the old Greek term Homer used nine hundred years back, like no other existed and time was nothing). Move out past the dockside market and the centre immediately beyond and the place is a dump. Ruins, slums, gimcrack buildings put up on the cheap by fly-by-night speculators or locals who can't afford to do the thing properly. Piles of rubble and refuse. You name it, Piraeus has it in spades. Worse, it's the fault of us Romans; barring the shoddy recent stuff that would fall down if you breathed on it too hard that's how our sterling champion of the Beautiful and Good Cornelius Sulla left it when he burned the town in a fit of aristocratic pique a hundred years back. And we wonder why after all we've done for them the provincials still don't like us.

  Argaius's trading emporium was in one of the dingy streets leading down from Zea Harbour where in the old days the Athenian navy used to moor its triremes. It was a two-up, two-down building with the living accommodation over the warehouse and a stray dog pissing against the bare brick wall. Not the sort of place, in other words, that you'd envisage as containing seriously pricey statues.

  Not the sort of place you'd envisage as containing anything at all except maybe third hand bric-a-brac and constructionally-challenged used furniture. The emporium looked deserted. I tried the door. It was locked, seriously locked, and the windows either side were covered and barred.

  Okay. So it was beginning to look like I wouldn't be bothering Melanthus for an authentication anyhow. I hammered on the worm-eaten panelling for five minutes just to show willing, then stepped back to look at the windows of the flat above. One of the shutters was half-open, sagging from a single hinge. I was sure I saw a movement behind it, but whoever was up there obviously didn't want to know.

  'Hey, Argaius!' I shouted. 'The name's Valerius Corvinus. I'm acting for Helvius Priscus in Rome. Open up, okay?'

  No answer. The windows stared down at me blankly.

  Shit. This didn't fit the pattern. If it was a scam I should be inside by now, being treated like royalty and having my arse licked six ways from nothing. There was someone in there, sure there was. So
what the hell was he playing at?

  I'd left Lysias with the carriage next to a cheap cookshop fifty yards further down the street. Maybe an enquiry there might help. I gave the door one final bang for luck, then set off towards it.

  I was almost there when a guy who wouldn't've looked out of place down at the docks loading cabbages came out chewing on a sausage.

  'You looking for Argaius?' he said. Not friendly, either; but then smiles in the Piraeus were about as rare as gold pieces.

  'Yeah. That's right.' Without making it too obvious I checked the knife I keep taped against my left wrist. 'You know where he is, pal?'

  The big docker took another reflective bite at the sausage. 'He just left town. Family business.'

  'Is that so, now?' I gauged my distance, but Lysias was already getting down from his box and hefting the weighted stick he carried for emergencies, so I doubted if the guy would try anything. Why he might want to was another question, and an interesting question at that.

  'Yeah. That's so.' His eyes never left mine.

  'You know when he'll be back?'

  'Uh-uh.' His jaws moved rhythmically and he spat out a lump of gristle. The stray dog pounced. 'What's it about?'

  'That's my business.' I kept the tone light. 'He leave anyone behind? Someone I could talk to?'

  The eyes flickered briefly towards the half-closed shutter, then away again.

  'No one to leave,' he said.

  Well, I couldn't call him a liar, especially when whoever was upstairs didn't want to show themselves. And short of kicking the door down and hauling them out I couldn't prove anything, either. I shrugged. 'It seems that I've had a wasted journey, then.'

  'Yeah.' He didn't move. 'Shame, isn't it?'

  The hell with this. I wasn't looking for trouble, and if Argaius was on the level it was up to him to make the next move; if he wasn't, then as far as I was concerned he could shove his scam where it would do the most good. I shrugged again and pitched my voice so whoever was behind the shutter would hear me. 'Okay, friend. But if Argaius comes back you tell him Valerius Corvinus wants a word with him. If he wants me he'll find me in the City. Big house on Lykaion Road, just beyond the Hippades Gate.'