The Lydian Baker

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.