The Lydian Baker

Shit. Priscus wrote even worse than he talked, and rereading didn't help much either. My head was spinning. I'd swear that half of this stuff wasn't even Latin.

'Hey, Perilla,' I said over my shoulder, 'Just skim through this and explain it to me in words of one syllable, would you?'

But she wasn't behind me any longer. I looked round just in time to see her disappearing through the door in the direction of the dining room. Yeah, well, Priscus off and running with the antiquarian bit between his teeth versus apple and calf's brain casserole on an empty stomach is no contest. I tossed the letter onto the side table, poured the last of the Setinian into my cup and followed her in the direction of the feed bag.

She wasn't in the dining room either. Odd.

Bathyllus was doing complex things with tableware.

'You seen the mistress?' I asked him.

'I understand she's gone to her study for a book, sir.' The little guy had on his prim put-upon look. Or maybe it was just his hernia playing up again. 'Should I serve dinner now or would you like another pre-dinner jug while we're waiting?'

That's what I like about Bathyllus: when he wants to be sarcastic his touch is feather light. Still, he had a point. I was mildly peeved with Perilla myself. My one inflexible rule is no reading at the table; literature plays hell with good conversation, not to mention giving me heartburn.

'No, go ahead.' I stretched out on the couch and held out my hands for the slave to pour water over them. 'She'll be down again in a minute.'

A sniff. 'Very well, sir.'

She wasn't; in fact, the starters were already off and running when she came back. Sure enough, she was carrying a book roll.

'Marcus, I've found it,' she said.

'Oh, whoopee.' I patted the couch beside me. 'But just leave it alone until we've eaten, Archimedes. Okay?'

Perilla ignored me. She lay down and held her hands out for the water, then patted them dry with a napkin and unrolled the book. 'The Baker statue was gifted to the Delphic oracle by Croesus of Lydia, six hundred years ago. Herodotus saw it at Delphi himself.'

'You don't say?' I tried to look unimpressed. Policy; give the lady an inch and she'll take a yard. 'Herodotus himself, eh? With his own little piggy eyes?' I passed her a fish pickle canapé.

'But you don't understand! Priscus is right. If the Baker's turned up it's incredible!'

I sighed. 'Perilla, it's dinner time, I'm hungry, and frankly I couldn't care less if Priscus's hunk of marble turns out to have the nosey old globetrotting bugger's name carved across its backside in cuneiform. Now shut up and let's eat.'

'Very well.' Perilla nibbled the canapé. 'I thought you'd be interested, though. The Baker wasn't marble. Nor was it bronze. It was solid gold, four and a half feet high.'

The olive I was chewing went down the wrong way and I choked. Perilla reached over and pounded me on the back.

'You are interested, then?' she said.

Jupiter in a bucket! 'Uh, Bathyllus?' I said when I could breathe again.

'Yes, sir?'

'There's a letter on the side table next door. Just bring it through, would you?'

He left, and I turned back to Perilla. 'Solid gold?' She nodded. 'Solid as in "solid"?' Another nod. 'And four and a half feet?'

'So Herodotus said, yes.'

I sat back. Yeah. Well, maybe it was incredible after all. Not that Priscus would care a toss for the monetary value; it took a philistine like me to think of that aspect. And it explained the price. Even melted down four and a half feet of solid gold is a lot of gravy.

'Okay,' I said. 'You have my undivided attention. You happen to know why this thing went missing?'

'No. But if it's reappeared then as Priscus says it's a major find. If Melanthus confirms its authenticity, naturally.'

'And who the hell is Melanthus?'

'Marcus, didn't you read what Priscus wrote?'

'Not from beginning to end, no. I gave up when my brain started to hurt.'

'What brain?'

'Now listen, lady..!' Someone coughed: our bald-headed major-domo, mission fulfilled, complete with Priscus's letter. I grabbed it and unrolled. This time I skipped the lumpy stuff:

I have asked a correspondent of mine at the Academy, one Melanthus of Abdera, if he would be kind enough to cast a professional eye over the statue before, Marcus, you conclude the financial formalities on my behalf.

Shit. That was all I needed. You can't move in Athens without tripping over some parboiled egghead philosopher, and the ones at the Academy are the pick of the clutch. I was getting bad feelings about this business already, find of the century or not. I carried on reading.

Melanthus is an expert on Eastern art, and you may trust to his judgment implicitly; also, naturally, Argaius understands that any sale will depend on his approval.

He'd lost me again. I checked above for Argaius and found him three paragraphs back. He was the seller, and according to Priscus he had an import-export business near the Serangeion. I frowned. I knew the Serangeion, in the run-down Piraeus docklands area between Zea and Mounychia harbours, and it wasn't a good address for a reputable art- dealer. Certainly not one who dealt in solid gold statues with star billing in Herodotus.

Something stank worse than the Tiber in midsummer, and it wasn't Meton's fish sauce canapés, either. I looked up. Perilla was helping herself to the fennel pottage.

'It all sounds absolutely fascinating, doesn't it?' she said.

Perilla never ceases to amaze me. She was serious. She was actually serious. I hated to burst the bubble, but it had to be done.

'It all sounds absolutely suspect, lady,' I said. 'Either we're talking black market here or Priscus is being sold a pup. I don't know about you, but personally I'd go for the second option.'

The spoon paused in mid-dollop. 'You think so?'

I sighed. 'Perilla, anyone with a business near the Serangeion knows more about faking ancient statues than a dog knows how to scratch. It's a con, believe me.'

'But that's terrible!' She looked stricken.

'It's the way the world works. The best favour I can do Priscus is to write back telling him to forget the whole thing, buy a hack team at the Racetrack and lose his money sensibly.'

'He'd never believe you.'

Well, she had a point there. I held out my plate for the tripe. I knew Priscus, and from the tone of his letter the guy had stars in his eyes. If I wrote back to say he'd be better throwing his cash down the nearest manhole or blowing it on wild women and fancy booze he'd ignore me and get himself another agent by return. At least I was family. And there was just an outside chance that this was on the level. The odds in favour were about the same as I'd put on a herd of flying pigs being spotted over the Acropolis, mind, but still…

'Marcus?'

I blinked. 'Yeah. That's me.'

'You really think this is a swindle?'

'If it isn't, I'm a eunuch priest of Attis.'

'But Melanthus — '

'Perilla, I wouldn't trust one of these Academy bubbleheads to authenticate his own grandmother. They're a con-artist's dream. Most of them don't have the sense to come in out of the rain, let alone spot a competent fake.'

She was silent for a moment. Then she sighed.

'Well, I suppose it does sound rather too good to be true,' she said. 'So. What can we do?'

'Go through the motions. At least until the dickering stage. After all, it can't hurt to give it a try, can it?'

Like hell it couldn't. But then, I didn't know that yet.