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  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.’

  XLVII

  When we looked at the map Helena always brought with her, we saw why even the waiters of elegant Delphi disparaged Lebadeia: it lay on a major route from Athens to Delphi, the processional way taken every year by dancing maids who indulge in winter rites to Dionysus. But Lebadeia, a town close to the Copais Lake, was in Boeotia. I had read enough Greek comedies. I knew that for the xenophobic Greeks, Boeotia represented the world’s unwashed armpit. The district was barbarian. Boeotians were always represented as brutes and buffoons.

  ‘Well, my darling,’ Helena murmured heartlessly, ‘you’ll fit in well there, won’t you?’

  I ignored that. I pointed out hotly that Lebadeia was miles away. Well, twenty as Apollo’s crow flies - though much more, allowing for one or two damn great mountains. One of those was where the maddened maenads tore King Pentheus to shreds in Bacchic frenzy; just the kind of bloodsoaked spot where informers like to dally, terrifying themselves with history.

  ‘I am not going.’

  ‘Then I shall have to go instead, Marcus. The road passes between the hills, I think; it’s not difficult. We can have no doubt where Statiahus is. Look here at the map -‘ Her road map depicted mansios and other useful features, shown as little buildings. It confirmed our fears. Lebadeia has an oracle.’

  I was all set to head straight back to Corinth and tell Aquillius Macer to dispatch a posse to pick up the prophecy-besotted bridegroom. Only the mention of Polystratus worried me. Phineus had said he was sending one of his people to find Statianus, and it seemed that he had. I was very unhappy with the outcome. From the waiter’s description, Polystratus appeared to have encouraged Statianus to head off on a new quest for divine truth - a crazy quest, I would say - instead of bringing him back to the fold.

  It was interesting that the waiter, who had never met him, had nonetheless heard of Polystratus. I had assumed he did all his ‘facilitating’ from the Rome office, then had no connection with the travellers until they came back to Italy and he fielded their angry complaints about their trips. So how come a waiter in a back-alley doss-house - albeit a regular stopover Phineus used for his clients at Delphi - still knew of Polystratus? What kind of reputation did he have in Greece? I had no time to enquire.

  I felt anxious about what his orders from Phineus had really involved. Hades, now that I knew Phineus himself had escaped from custody, I was worried where he had got to, and what he might be planning while on the run.

  ‘What if you were the killer, and more conventional than us?’ Helena asked me. ‘We have a cynical view of oracles - but what if you believed in them and thought Statianus might one day hear the truth from a prophetess?’

  ‘You would want to stop it.’

  ‘You might think that Delphi was too public. You might like Statianus to go to a more remote oracle and deal with him there.’

  Helena was right; we had no option. We had to go to Lebadeia and find Statianus again ourselves.

  We took the poet. He was a witness, one I could not afford to lose or to have coerced behind my back. I was reluctant to leave him, in case his nerve failed and he vanished. Besides, the killer might know he was a witness. For Lampon, that could be dangerous.

  Anyway, poets come in handy when you are riding through landscapes which are rich in myth and literary connections. Before we reached Lebadeia, Lampon had proved himself a good source of information on the shrine we were approaching. It was called the Oracle of Trophonius. The Boeotians had made a mint there, by offering prophecies to distraught pilgrims who failed in the question lottery at Delphi. But as oracles go (and for me you can stuff them) I hated the sound of this one.

  According to Lampon, the Oracle of Trophonius worked in a different way from Delphi. There was no Pythia muttering gibberish. The applicant was allowed direct contact with whatever divine force lived there. He learned the future for himself, through what he saw and heard. The bad news was that to acquire it, he had to subject himself to an appalling physical ordeal, which left people terrified, traumatised, and often unconscious.

  ‘They lose the power to laugh,’ Lampon announced darkly. ‘It can be permanent. When someone is particularly gloomy, with a dark mentality, we say they must have got that way at the Oracle of Trophonius.’

  As we journeyed for a day across country, that was our first intimation of what was really bad at Lebadeia.

  XLVIII

  The River Hercyna dashed down noisily from Mount Helike in a steep gorge. In flood, it must be icy, deep, and full of clashing rocks carried down from the lonely, near-vertical crags. Plenty of water also rises from springs on the area.

  Lebadeia lay mainly on the east bank of the river. For a town in the world’s unwashed armpit, it seemed decent and prosperous. Maybe the Attic Greeks were wrong. Of the legendary Boeotian brutality there was little sign in the agora, while the shopkeepers seemed to run businesses on normal commercial lines. People grunted when we asked directions, but locals do that everywhere. It would have been more unnerving if they stopped in their tracks and were helpful. Even without local assistance we found a small rooming-house. Then I started asking around for news of Statianus, but got nowhere.

  At dinner in a foodshop with few customers, we found a waitress who was willing to expound on the oracle. It involved much pursing of the lips and sucking in of breath. She wiped down her hands on her skirt and sombrely told us that there was a great deal of ritual, much of it taking place in darkness, and all designed to put the applicant into a state of dread.

  First, he had to spend three days living in an appointed house, washing only in cold water, and making sacrifices. Then, at the dead of night, two young boys would lead him to the moonlit river, wash him in its freezing water, anoint him, take him through various acts of worship, dress him strangely in a beribboned outfit with heavy boots, then pass him on to the priests for his scary initiation. He would drink Waters of Forgetfulness, to wash his mind clear. Then he descended by a flimsy ladder into a purpose-built underground chamber, where he was left alone. In pitch darkness, while holding barley-cakes in either hand, he had to insert his body, legs first, into a narrow cleft, where - according to the waitress - supernatural forces would physically suck him in, reveal the truth in an awesome manner, then spit him back out, a shattered wreck. Priests would take him to drink the Waters of Memory, after which he would remember and record for posterity all he had learned - if and when he recovered consciousness. His friends and family had to gather him up and hope he would survive the experience. Not everyone did.

  Unnervingly, we were told of one person who avoided the full ritual and was fatally punished. Perhaps he entered the oracle in search of treasure. He disappeared that night, failing to emerge from the sacred fissure. His dead body was found days later, some distance from the oracle.

  That was one way to ensure no one rebelled against procedure. All the best magical sanctuaries have horrible stories to warn off blasphemers and looters. The details of what happened to genuine applicants at this shrine were nasty enough.

  ‘You would have to be very desperate,’ Helena commented. Our waitress, who had grown up with Trophonius, agreed - but her sympathy was fleeting and she then skipped off to fetch us a big dish of honey into which we could dip pastries. She had never been to the oracle, and knew nobody local who had taken part in its ritual. Clearly it was a tourist trap.

  We sat silent for a while. We knew one man who was desperate enough for this. We were appalled at Tullius Statianus being subjected to rites that were intended to overwhelm a fragile mind in torment. To put himself through this terror all alone was dreadful. He had no devoted friends or family to wait outside the shrine for him. Even if we had believed that Trophonius really would reveal the truth, what Statianus then heard in the sacred chamber might be unbearable. But I for one thought oracles like this all worked by trickery
.

  Neither Helena nor I slept much that night.

  Next morning we went straight across the river looking for the oracle. Since river water was needed during the ritual, we knew it would not be too far away. There were various shrines on the banks of the Hercyna. In a grove on a hillside stood a small temple to Trophonius, a local king and minor deity. Just beyond the grove, the oracle itself consisted of a sizeable man-made earth mound. This supported a round drum-shaped feature constructed from white marble, about the size of the average threshing floor and roughly three feet high. On top were bronze posts, linked by chains, and a double set of trapdoors. Through these, hapless enquirers must descend for their ordeal.

  I was dreading this. In the course of my work, I had been forced to enter several ghastly pits and wells. The mere thought of another made me claustrophobic. I could do it if I knew I had to rescue someone, but I liked to have back-up from a group of strong men I trusted.

  Bad memories were lurking close. Helena slipped her long fingers around one of my clenched fists. Cold sweat trickled down my back; it had nothing to do with the weather. Now here was another pitch black hole down which, if I knew anything, sooner or later I would be sent.

  Before it came to that, we asked a priest about Statianus. The priest tried the usual blank response, citing confidentiality. I cited the Emperor and threatened to close down the shrine. He saw reason. Faced with loss of revenue, they generally do.

  ‘Such a young man as you describe came to seek the truth here,’ he admitted.

  ‘Who came here with him?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’

  ‘He carried out the full ritual. We had him in our community for three days. We would have known if anyone was in Lebadeia with him.’