'We pinched it!' Varga tried brazenly.

'You forged the pig off his signet-ring for my invoice then-and which of you was supposed to have done my job for me?'

'Oh shove off, Geminus!'

'Well if that's his attitude-' Pa hauled himself upright. 'I'm bored with this,' he said to me. Then he fiddled about with a pouch at his waist and pulled out a large knife.

XLV

'Oh come on, Pa,' I protested weakly. 'You'll frighten him. You know what cowards painters are!'

'I'm not going to hurt him much,' Pa assured me, with a wink. He flexed his arm as he wielded the knife. It was a stout kitchen effort, which I guessed he normally used to eat his lunch. 'If he won't talk, let's have a bit of fun-' His eyes were dangerously bright; he was like a child at a goose fair.

Next minute my father drew back his arm, and threw the knife. It thonked into the door between the painter's legs, which we had tied apart-though not that far apart.

'Geminus!' screamed Varga, as his manhood was threatened.

I winced. 'Ooh! Could have been nasty:' Still amazed at Pa's aim, I scrambled to my feet as well, and whipped my own dagger from my boot.

Pa was inspecting his shot. 'Came a bit close to castrating the beggar: Maybe I'm not very good at this.'

'Maybe I'm worse!' I grinned, squaring up to the target.

Varga began to scream for help.

'Cut it out, Varga,' Pa told him benignly. 'Hold on, Marcus. We can't enjoy ourselves while he's squalling. Let me deal with him-' In the tool-bag he had snaffled was a piece of rag. It stank, and was caked with something we could not identify. 'Probably poisonous; we'll gag him with this. Then you can really let rip-'

'Manlius knows!' wailed the fresco painter weakly. 'Orontes was his pal. Manlius knows where he is!'

We thanked him, but Pa gagged him with the oily rag anyway, and we left him hanging upside down on the door.

'Next time you're thinking of annoying the Didius boys-think twice!'

We found Manlius at the top of a scaffold. He was in the white room, painting the frieze.

'No, don't bother coming down; we'll come up to you:'

Both Father and I had nipped up his ladder before he knew what was happening. I grasped him by the hand, beaming like a friend.

'No, don't start being nice to him!' Pa instructed me curtly. 'We wasted too much time being pleasant with the other one. Give him the boot treatment!'

So much for auctioneers being civilised men of the arts. With a shrug of apology, I overpowered the painter, and pushed him to his knees.

Here there was no need to go off looking for rope; Manlius had his own for hauling up paint and other tools to his work platform. My father unwound this rapidly, hurling down the basket. Snarling horribly, he sawed through the rope. We used a short piece to tie up Manlius. Then Pa knotted the longer remaining length around his ankles. Without needing to consult one another we picked him up, and rolled him over the edge of the scaffold.

His cry as he found himself swinging in space broke off as we held him suspended on the rope. After he grew accustomed to his new situation, he just moaned.

'Where's Orontes?' He refused to say.

Pa muttered, 'Someone has either paid these nuts a fortune, or frightened them!'

'That's all right,' I answered, gazing over the edge at the painter. 'We'll have to frighten this one more!'

We climbed down to the ground. There was a plasterer's lime bath, which we dragged across the room so it was directly under Manlius. He hung about three feet above it, cursing us.

'What now, Pa? We could fill it with cement, drop him into it, let it set and then heave him into the Tiber. I think he'd sink-' Manlius was holding out bravely. Maybe he thought that even in Rome, where the passers-by can be frivolous, it would be difficult to carry a man who was set in concrete through the streets without attracting attention from the aediles.

'There's plenty of paint; let's see what we can do with that!'

'Ever made plaster? Let's have a go:'

We had wonderful fun. We tipped quantities of dry plaster into the bath, poured in water, and stirred madly with a stick. Then we stiffened it with cattle hair. I found a kettle of white paint, so we tried adding that. The effect was revolting, encouraging us to experiment more wildly. We hunted through the painter's basket for colourings, whooping as we made great swirls in the mixture of gold, red, blue and black.

Plasterers use dung in their devious mysteries. We found sacks of the stuff and tipped it into our mud pie, commenting frequently on the smell.

I climbed back up on to the scaffold. Pausing only to pass a few well-informed comments on the riot of garlands, torches, vases, pigeons and bird-baths and cupids riding panthers from which Manlius had been creating his frieze, I unfastened the rope holding him. Leaning back on my heels, I let it slip slightly. Pa stood below, encouraging me.

'Down a bit! Few more inches-' In a nerve-racking series of jerks, Manlius sank head first towards the plasterer's bath. 'Gently, this is the tricky bit-'

The painter lost his nerve and frantically tried to swing himself towards the scaffold; I paid out rope abruptly. He froze, whimpering.

'Tell us about Orontes!'

For one last second he shook his head furiously, keeping his eyes closed. Then I dunked him in the bath.

I dropped him just far enough to cover his hair. Then I pulled him out a few inches, refastened the rope, and nipped down to inspect my achievement. Pa was roaring unkindly. Manlius hung there, his once black hair now dripping a disgusting goo in white, with occasional red and blue streaks. The ghastly tide-line came up as far as his eyebrows, which were bushy enough to hold quite a weight of the thick white mess.

'Couldn't be better,' said Pa approvingly.

The painter's hair had formed itself into ludicrous spikes. Grasping his inert body, I spun him gently between my hands. He turned one way, then lazily came back. Pa halted his progress with the stirring stick.

'Now, Manlius. Just a few sensible words will get you out of this. But if you're not going to help us, I might as well let my crazy son drop you right into the bath

Manlius closed his eyes. 'Oh gods:'

'Tell us about Orontes,' I said, playing the quiet one of our pair.

'He's not in Rome-'

'He was in Rome!' Pa roared.

Manlius was cracking. 'He thought it was safe to come back. He's gone again-'

'What was he frightened of?'

'I don't know:' We let him swing round in another circle; being upside down must have become quite painful by now. 'Of people asking questions-'

'Who? Censorinus? Laurentius? Us?'

'All of you.'

'So why is he frightened? What has he done, Manlius?'

'I really don't know. Something big. He never would tell me-'

A feeling was growing. I grabbed Manlius by the ear. 'Was my brother Festus annoyed with him?'

'Probably

'Something to do with a lost statue, was it?' asked Father.

'Or a statue that was not lost at all,' I growled. 'From a ship that never sank-'

'The ship sank!' croaked Manlius. 'That's the truth of it. Orontes told me when he was getting out of Rome to avoid Festus. The ship with the statue sank; that's the honest truth!'

'What else did he tell you?'

'Nothing! Oh cut me down-'

'Why did he tell you nothing? He's your chum, isn't he?'

'Matter of trust:' Manlius whispered, as if he was afraid even to mention it. 'He's been paid a lot of money to keep quiet:' I could believe these romantic politicians would actually honour such a trust, even if the villains who bribed them were the worst kind of criminals. This lot probably lacked the moral scepticism to recognise true villainy.