'I want to save my neck from the public strangler,' I retorted frankly. 'A soldier called Censorinus has been murdered, probably for asking just this sort of question. Unless I can shed light on events, I'll be condemned for the killing. Hear that, and understand me: I'm a desperate man!'

'I know nothing about anything,' Varga assured me.

'Well you know enough to lie about it!' I rasped good-humouredly. Then I lowered my voice. 'Festus is dead; you cannot harm him. The truth may even protect his reputation-though I'm honestly not expecting it-so don't hold back to avoid offending me.'

'It's a complete fog to me,' Varga repeated.

'I hate people who pretend to be idiots!' I spun off the bed where I was lying, and got hold of his right arm. I twisted it enough to hurt. As I sprang at him I had whipped out my knife; I laid it against his wrist so the slightest movement would make him cut himself. 'Stop messing me about. I know you met Festus and I know it's relevant! Come clean, Varga, or I'll slice off your painting hand!'

Varga went white. Too drunk to resist, and too innocent to know how to do it anyway, he stared up at me in terror, hardly able to breathe. I was so frustrated by the enquiry, I almost meant what I said. I was frightening myself, and Varga could tell. A vague sound gurgled in his throat.

'Speak up, Varga. Don't be shy!'

'I can't remember meeting your brother-'

' I remember you meeting him,' I declared coldly. 'And I wasn't even in on the conspiracy!'

His friend shifted anxiously. At last I was getting somewhere.

'There was no conspiracy involving us,' Manlius burst out from the other bed. 'I told that to the soldier when he came!'

XXXIX

'This is news to me!' Varga pleaded.

I pressed the knife harder against his arm, so he could feel the edge of the blade, though in fact I had it turned so it did not yet pierce the skin. 'Careful. You're very drunk, and I'm not entirely sober. One wrong move, and you've painted your last tantalising nipple:' I stared at Manlius. 'Carry on. I'm versatile. I can manage to threaten one man while the other does the talking!'

'Tell him,' Varga urged faintly. 'And I wouldn't mind knowing myself:'

'You weren't here,' Manlius explained. They had peculiar priorities. His main concern seemed to be convincing his pal that there were no secrets at the lodging-house. 'It was one of your days for taking Rubinia's measurements:'

'Cut the ribaldry!' I grated. 'What happened with Censorinus?'

'Laurentius,' corrected Manlius.

'Who?'

'He said his name was Laurentius.'

I released Varga, but sat back on my heels, still holding the knife where they could both see it. 'Are you certain? The soldier who died was called Censorinus Macer.'

'Laurentius was what he told me.'

If Censorinus had had a crony with him in Rome, I was very relieved to hear it; this Laurentius would be a prime suspect. Cronies fall out. They sit in a tavern having a drink, then they quarrel about money, or women, or political philosophy, or simply about whether their boat home leaves on Tuesday or Thursday. Then it's natural that somebody gets stabbed and his pal legs it: Or so I tried to convince myself, overlooking to some extent the violence with which the centurion had been attacked.

'So tell me about this Laurentius. What was his rank and legion, and when did he come to see you?'

'A while ago-'

'Weeks? Months?'

Being specific was not a habit here. 'A month or two: possibly. I don't know the other details.'

'Oh come on, you're a damned painter, aren't you? You're supposed to be observant! Did he carry a vine staff?'

'Yes.'

'Then he was a full centurion. He would have been close friends with Festus. Did he tell you that?' Manlius nodded. 'Good. Now take a deep breath and tell me what he wanted.' There was no flicker of rational thought below the painter's long untidy fringe of hair. 'Did he,' I spelled out, 'ask you about the Hypericon, for instance-or did he go straight to the matter of the Phidias?'

Manlius smiled finally. It was a gentle, undeceptive smile. I did not place a scruple of trust in that soft grin-but the words he uttered rang true enough: 'I don't know what you're talking about, Falco. The soldier was asking about someone. I remember,' he told me quietly, 'because it was the same person Festus was so stirred up about on that night in the Virgin.'

'Who?'

'Orontes Mediolanus.'

'The sculptor,' Varga contributed.

This was the part that did make sense.

I kept my voice as steady as possible. 'And where in Rome can I find this Orontes?'

'That's the point!' Manlius burst out, with relaxed and unvindictive triumph. 'Orontes has disappeared from Rome. In fact he vanished years ago.'

I had already guessed the sequel. 'He had vanished when Festus was after him?'

'Of course! That was why Festus came looking for us. Festus wanted to ask us where in Hades Orontes was.'

I went back a step. 'How did you know Festus?'

'He noticed models,' Varga said, convincingly. We all glanced at his Amazon and imagined Festus taking notice of Rubinia.

'And why did he think you could track down Orontes?'

'Orontes used to lodge with us,' Varga explained. 'In fact, earlier this evening, you were lying on his bed!'

I stared at it. The hard, lumpy mattress was covered with a thin blanket. Unwashed food bowls were piled underneath, and these two untidy idiots kept paint-kettles on one end, encrusted with copper oxides and enamels. Perhaps the bed had gone downhill since the sculptor lived here, but if not I could see why he might have left: maybe he was just fastidious.

'So what happened to Orontes?'

'Disappeared. One morning we went out and left him snoring; when we came back he had taken himself off. He never came back.'

'Wandering feet! Sounds like my father: Did you worry?'

'Why? He was grown up.'

'Were his things missing?'

I had asked the question casually. The painters half exchanged a glance before one said yes and the other no. 'We sold them,' Varga admitted. I could believe it. Their guilty expressions were right, since the property had not been theirs to sell. All the same, I sensed an atmosphere, which I noted. They could well be lying about this.

I went over all the ground a second time, confirming the facts. There was little to add. I learned only that the centurion Laurentius had gone away as dissatisfied as I was. Manlius had no information about where this soldier had been staying in Rome. Neither of them knew what Festus had wanted the sculptor for.

Or if they knew, they were not admitting it to me.

I poured what remained of the amphora into their winecups and formally saluted them.

'Farewell, boys! I'll leave you to contemplate how fine art can save the civilised world from its sterility.' From the doorway I grinned at the squalor they inhabited. 'Own up. This is just a sham, isn't it? Really, you're two hard-working citizens who love the Empire and live like lambs. I bet you say a prayer to the hearth goddess every morning and write home to your mothers twice a week?'

Manlius, who was probably the sharper one of the disreputable pair, gave me a shamefaced smile. 'Have a heart, Falco! My mother's eighty-one. I have to show devotion to such age.'

Varga, who lived among more private dreams, studied his Aphrodite mournfully, and pretended he had not heard.